‘Thou
makest thine appeal to me:
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,
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
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?
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!
O for thy voice to soothe and bless!
What hope of answer, or redress?
Behind
the veil, behind the veil.