the silent chanting of the soul

though the dark sky has gathered stormy numbers
of vultures to be snowed upon my corpse;
though the weak arc of heaven warps
beneath the darkness that encumbers
the night beyond; though we believe the end
is but the end, and that the torn flesh crumbles
and the fierce soul, rent from its temple, tumbles
into the gloom where empty winds contend,
in gnat-like vortex droning - what is this
that makes us stamp upon the mountain-tops,
so fearless at the brink of the abyss,
where into space the sharp rock-rampart drops
and bleak winds hiss?
it is the silent chanting of the soul:
"though times shall change and stormy ages roll,
i am that ancient hunter of the plains
that raked the shaggy flitches of the bison:
pass world!: i am the dreamer that remains,
the man, clear-cut against the last horizon!"

roy campbell (1901-1957), "the flaming terrapin" (1924, fragmento)