Durer's "Melencholia", Edward Dowden, 1843–1913 The bow of promise, this last 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.