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38
DISCRIMINA RERUM
Slowly glide the years of sorrow,But they have not far to glide:
Every night and every morrow
Brings their melancholy tide
Nearer to that trackless ocean
Where so many loved ones lie
Dead, although our fond devotion
Pleaded that they might not die.
Oh, that hapless useless pleading,
How intense its passion is!
How the man whose heart is bleeding
Clings to that which has been his,
Still reluctant so to sever
Child from mother, man from wife;
Longing still to keep for ever
All that once fulfill'd his life.
Is it well, this piteous longing
For the creatures of a day?
Is it right, or are we wronging
Him who took these things away?
Yes, 'tis well; it is but groping
Straight through twilight towards the truth:
Toward that sure immortal hoping
Of our childhood and our youth,
When we felt, without emotion
Save a sense of certainty,
39
There were shores we could not see:
Shores, where all those loved ones standing
Smile on us, and softly say
“We, who here await your landing,
Are not creatures of a day.”
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