 | Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson |  |
LIGHT! FOR THE STARS ARE PALE
“Non, l'avenir n'est à personne.”—Hugo.
“Les morts, les pauvres morts, ont des grandes douleurs.”—
Baudelaire.
Light! for the stars are pale; light! for the high moon wanes;
Whither now hides the sun, that all we stricken blind,
Feel not his eyes, hear not the thunders of the wind
Flung round him trumpet-toned about his clear domains?
Morn's rose along night's verge with folded wing disdains
Our twilight miserable and hopes of humankind,
Hardly we catch its breath; is the great sun less kind,
Than falling stars, frail moons, than night's cloud hurricanes?
Whither now hides the sun, that all we stricken blind,
Feel not his eyes, hear not the thunders of the wind
Flung round him trumpet-toned about his clear domains?
Morn's rose along night's verge with folded wing disdains
Our twilight miserable and hopes of humankind,
Hardly we catch its breath; is the great sun less kind,
Than falling stars, frail moons, than night's cloud hurricanes?
Darkling we dwindle deathward, and our dying sight
Strains back to pierce the living gloom; ere night be done
We pass from night to night; our sons shall see the light,
Children of us shall laugh to welcome the free sun;
Yet pity for the poor dead must mar their fair joy won,—
That all we died too soon, passing from night to night.
Strains back to pierce the living gloom; ere night be done
We pass from night to night; our sons shall see the light,
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Yet pity for the poor dead must mar their fair joy won,—
That all we died too soon, passing from night to night.
The Wykehamist, 26 June 1885.
| Poetical Works of Lionel Johnson | |