 | Poems and dramas of George Cabot Lodge |  |
84
XXIV
DAYS
Still on his grave, relentless, one by one,They fall as fell the mystic, Sibylline,
Sad leaves, and still the Meaning's secret sign
Dies undeciphered with each dying sun.
How shall the burning heart of Truth be won?
Whence shall the light of revelation shine?
When shall the mind's discernment grow divine?
Where shall the soul's immortal deeds be done?
What were the incommunicable things
Whereof his dying eyes were undismayed?
What were the words that stirred his strangling breath?
Sharply the Night's impenetrable wings
Covered his eyes, and on his lips was laid
The inveterate taciturnity of Death!
| Poems and dramas of George Cabot Lodge | |