 | Orestes and other poems |  |
TO THE ANGEL OF DEATH
Thou art cold with acquaintance of sorrow
Our cries are but sounds of a sleep
Thine ears and thine eyes hast thou hardened
And with time hast forgotten to weep
Our cries are but sounds of a sleep
Thine ears and thine eyes hast thou hardened
And with time hast forgotten to weep
Yet at first was there never repining
When the fresh young world was born
Ere the years brought strength and silence
And the centuries gave thee scorn?
When the fresh young world was born
Ere the years brought strength and silence
And the centuries gave thee scorn?
Did no prayer from thee rise to the heavens
Nor one sigh that it might not be,
Oh! at first when thine ears must hearken,
Oh! at first when thine eyes must see
Nor one sigh that it might not be,
Oh! at first when thine ears must hearken,
Oh! at first when thine eyes must see
Nor some look of a child on the mother
In that idle last embrace
Bring a strange imperfect pity
To thy calm and perfect face?
In that idle last embrace
Bring a strange imperfect pity
To thy calm and perfect face?
Then I deem there was something of anguish
O'er the early hopeless bier
Tho' divine thou wast touched for a moment
To a vain terrestrial tear
O'er the early hopeless bier
Tho' divine thou wast touched for a moment
To a vain terrestrial tear
It may be that strong in thy wisdom
Thy hand makes the wild heart cease
Like the hand of an infinite pity
With the cool of an infinite peace
Thy hand makes the wild heart cease
Like the hand of an infinite pity
With the cool of an infinite peace
Ah no! when we ask of a Father
What region of light we shall reach
Cometh o'er thee some silence of knowledge
Some sorrow too strong for speech
What region of light we shall reach
Cometh o'er thee some silence of knowledge
Some sorrow too strong for speech
Then at length in thine eyes comes the pity
In thine ears comes the anguish of old
For a moment thou wouldest have spoken
It is past—thou art still, thou art cold—
In thine ears comes the anguish of old
For a moment thou wouldest have spoken
It is past—thou art still, thou art cold—
| Orestes and other poems | |