Clarel a poem and pilgrimage in the Holy Land |
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 | Clarel |  |
“Mad John,” sighed Rolfe, “dost there betray
The dire Vox Clamans of our day?”
The dire Vox Clamans of our day?”
“Why heed him?” Derwent breathed: “alas!
Let him alone, and it will pass.—
What would he now?” Before the bay
Low bowed he there, with hand addressed
To scoop. “Unhappy, hadst thou best?”
Djalea it was; then calling low
Unto a Bethlehemite whose brow
Was wrinkled like the bat's shrunk hide—
“Your salt-song, Beltha: warn and chide.”
Let him alone, and it will pass.—
285
Low bowed he there, with hand addressed
To scoop. “Unhappy, hadst thou best?”
Djalea it was; then calling low
Unto a Bethlehemite whose brow
Was wrinkled like the bat's shrunk hide—
“Your salt-song, Beltha: warn and chide.”
| Clarel | |