The Convergence of the Twain

In a solitude of the seaDeep from human vanity,And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

Steel chambers, late the pyresOf her salamandrine fires,Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

Over the mirrors meantTo glass the opulentThe sea-worm crawls—grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

Jewels in joy designedTo ravish the sensuous mindLie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

Dim moon-eyed fishes nearGaze at the gilded gearAnd query: "What does this vaingloriousness down here?" ...

Well: while was fashioningThis creature of cleaving wing,The Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything

Prepared a sinister mateFor her—so gaily great—A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

And as the smart ship grewIn stature, grace, and hue,In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

Alien they seemed to be:No mortal eye could seeThe intimate welding of their later history.

Or sign that they were bentBy paths coincidentOn being anon twin halves of one august event,

Till the Spinner of the YearsSaid "Now!" And each one hears,And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.