 | Voices and visions |  |
169
INGERSOLL DEAD
What ails the blue of day, the mirth of birds,
The pomps of dawn and evening, the high calms
Of night's miraculous gardens flowered with stars?
Why sobs the ocean sadlier, and why laugh
Less jocundly its bright innumerous lips?
What spell hath stolen the emerald from the turf,
And made the majesty of mountains loom
Lowlier?
The pomps of dawn and evening, the high calms
Of night's miraculous gardens flowered with stars?
Why sobs the ocean sadlier, and why laugh
Less jocundly its bright innumerous lips?
What spell hath stolen the emerald from the turf,
And made the majesty of mountains loom
Lowlier?
It is the loss that sears our souls;
It is not nature sorrowing; it is we!
Nature, in mindless mechanism superb,
Neither laments nor yet doth she rejoice.
Nay, she but takes the tints, chameleon-wise,
Of our own agony, while we stretch void arms
For him that yesterday sublimely was!
It is not nature sorrowing; it is we!
Nature, in mindless mechanism superb,
Neither laments nor yet doth she rejoice.
Nay, she but takes the tints, chameleon-wise,
Of our own agony, while we stretch void arms
For him that yesterday sublimely was!
August 1899.
| Voices and visions | |