 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | V. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| VI. |
 | The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere |  |
147
XXVIII. THE DYING PLATONIST.
Fain would I call that night which spreads so fastOut of the vault of Death's abysmal skies,
A gentle gloom like that of thy dark eyes:
Fain would I say that we, like children, cast
Our blind-fold faces with a timid haste
Into a mother's lap—ere long to rise
Some little forfeit and some sweet surprise
The playful future of a playful past.
But ah! it is not so. Reality
Makes a dread language of this ebbing breath;
Preaching those awful homilies of Death
Which sound so like each other at their close.
The least of Sins is Infinite: it throws
A shade into the face of the Most High.
| The Poetical Works of Aubrey De Vere | |