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 | Poems and dramas of George Cabot Lodge |  |
110
XXXVII
TOO SOON
His wordless voice was like a toiling dream;I waited, stupid in my wasted hope,
And felt the winds, beneath the heavens cope,
Stir like the pulse of some vast gradual stream.
This was the end. I heard again his scream
Of perfect fear, and felt about me furled
The naked hate of all the living world:—
God's eyes looked into mine nor were supreme!
The crawling fear had thrust his jaws apart
And fixed his lidless eyes against the wall,
And Death held back the tides within his heart;
I cried, “For Pity, tell me if she lied!”
Then came the hideous simper, and a small
Mute whisper writhed upon his lips and died.
| Poems and dramas of George Cabot Lodge | |