THE SEVEN AGES OF THE SOUL
(Enter before the curtain, PSYCHE, who speaks the Prologue.)
I am the soul of man, that Mystery unsolved,
Though ever pondered deeper as the ages pass:
The fond familiar I of subtle Hindu thought-
A concept shunned by warrior race and merchant
class:
But with the Greeks, whose hearts were tuned to thrill
When Beauty sounded (be the medium mind,
Body or soul-the note was Beauty still-)
With these rare Greeks, the soul a God we find.
Psyche they called me, garlanded about
With myth and legend, breathing joy and woe,
Hope and despair, but blossoming at last
Into the bliss that souls immortal know.
Shakespeare, that poet-sage who read men's hearts,
Has drawn a picture of the life of man:
Seven steps that lead from vale to mountain-top,
And back to valley dim in one life's span.
So is man's life; but I, the Soul, declare
That once I reach the towering mountain-crest