 | The Way of the Winepress |  |
QUIS CONSOLABIT?
THE world's wounds, poet, hast thou staunched with songAnd for fresh blood, in each exhausted vein
Poured the pure tide of thy prophetic pain.
But who shall staunch thy wounds? What God were strong
Enough to stay the ichorous floods that throng
From thy Time-tortured heart and world-worn brain?
Alcides-like, to Gods and men in vain
For help the righter looks of the world's wrong.
As 'midst the eternal snows the eternal fire,
So, phosphorescent 'gainst the bloody mire
Of this our inextinguishable Hell,
Each on his several cross of stone or tree,
The singer and the saviour still we see
And the consoler inconsolable.
| The Way of the Winepress | |