At the Meeting of Seven Valleys

At the meeting of seven valleys in the west,I came upon a host of silent souls,Seated beside still waters on the grass.It was a place of memories and tears—Terrible tears. I rested in a wood,And there the bird that mourns for Itys sang—Itys that touched the tears of all the world.But climbing onward toward the purple peaks,I passed, on silent feet, white multitudes,Beyond the reach of peering memories,Lying asleep upon the scented banks,Their bodies burning with celestial fire.A mighty awe came on me at the thought—The strangeness of the beatific sleep,The vision of God, the mystic bread of rest.