 | The book of the dead |  |
188
[XCIV. In robes of woe, before me stood]
In robes of woe, before me stood
A silent figure. Towards the ground,
His features, muffled in his hood,
Were bowed with sorrow most profound.
A silent figure. Towards the ground,
His features, muffled in his hood,
Were bowed with sorrow most profound.
I questioned him; but no reply
Was mine, save what might be expressed
By the long quaver of a sigh,
Or hands that beat his troubled breast.
Was mine, save what might be expressed
By the long quaver of a sigh,
Or hands that beat his troubled breast.
I loosed his robe, with meaning kind,
I drew the garment from its place;
His splendor struck my senses blind;
An angel shone before my face!
I drew the garment from its place;
His splendor struck my senses blind;
An angel shone before my face!
His smile said more than many words:
He tarried not; he gazed on high;
His pinions flashed, like brandished swords,
And clove amain the cloudless sky.
He tarried not; he gazed on high;
His pinions flashed, like brandished swords,
And clove amain the cloudless sky.
189
I followed him with longing view;
He did not vanish from my sight;
His form diffused itself, and grew
To be a portion of the light.
He did not vanish from my sight;
His form diffused itself, and grew
To be a portion of the light.
| The book of the dead | |