 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
349
THE BOOK OF HOURS
As one who reads a tale writ in a tongueHe only partly knows,—runs over it
And follows but the story, losing wit
And charm, and half the subtle links among
The haps and harms that the book's folk beset,—
So do we with our life. Night comes, and morn:
I know that one has died and one is born;
That this by love and that by hate is met.
But all the grace and glory of it fail
To touch me, and the meanings they enfold.
The Spirit of the World hath told the tale,
And tells it: and 't is very wise and old.
But o'er the page there is a mist and veil:
I do not know the tongue in which 't is told.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |