Durer's 'Melencholia'

THE bow of promise, this lost flaring star,

Terror and hope are in mid-heaven; but She,

The mighty-wing'd crown'd Lady Melancholy,

Heeds not. O to what vision'd goal afar

Does her thought bear those steadfast eyes which are

A torch in darkness? There nor shore nor sea,

Nor ebbing Time vexes Eternity,

Where that lone thought outsoars the mortal bar.

Tools of the brain--the globe, the cube--no more

She deals with; in her hand the compass stays;

Nor those, industrious genius, of her lore

Student and scribe, thou gravest of the fays,

Expect this secret to enlarge thy store;

She moves through incommunicable ways.

Edward Dowden