 | The ghost's entry and other poems |  |
27
THE DEAD STAR
Yonder, in empty dark,
Wanders, somewhere, a wasted sun, whose light,
Erst breathed abroad with life-creating spark,
Made hanging gardens of the circling night.
Wanders, somewhere, a wasted sun, whose light,
Erst breathed abroad with life-creating spark,
Made hanging gardens of the circling night.
Through Time's dark emptiness,
Some soul, that genius lit, goes, withered, wan,
Its flame to blackness fallen, purposeless;—
The dead star wanders with the fire-spent man.
Some soul, that genius lit, goes, withered, wan,
Its flame to blackness fallen, purposeless;—
The dead star wanders with the fire-spent man.
| The ghost's entry and other poems | |