| "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. | |