"So careful of the type?" but no. | |
From scarped cliff and quarried stone | |
She cries, "A thousand types are gone: | |
I care for nothing, all shall go. | |
| |
"Thou makest thine appeal to me: | 5 |
I bring to life, I bring to death: | |
The spirit does but mean the breath: | |
I know no more." And he, shall he, | |
| |
Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, | |
Such splendid purpose in his eyes, | 10 |
Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, | |
Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, | |
| |
Who trusted God was love indeed | |
And love Creation's final law-- | |
Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw | 15 |
With ravine, shriek'd against his creed-- | |
| |
Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, | |
Who battled for the True, the Just, | |
Be blown about the desert dust, | |
Or seal'd within the iron hills? | 20 |
| |
No more? A monster then, a dream, | |
A discord. Dragons of the prime, | |
That tare each other in their slime, | |
Were mellow music match'd with him. | |
| |
O life as futile, then, as frail! | 25 |
O for thy voice to soothe and bless! | |
What hope of answer, or redress? | |
Behind the veil, behind the veil. | |