Lyric Poems by Laurence Binyon |
 |
| I. |
| II. |
| IV. |
| VII. |
| X. |
| XII. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XIX. |
| XXII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVII. |
| XXXVIII. |
| XL. |
| XLVI. | XLVI.
|
| XLVII. |
| XLVIII. |
| XLIX. |
 | Lyric Poems |  |
80
XLVI.
[The shrines of old are broken down]
The shrines of old are broken down;
The faiths that knelt at them are dead.
Nothing's strange, and nought unknown:
All's been done and all been said.
Tired of knowledge, now we sigh
For a little mystery.
The faiths that knelt at them are dead.
Nothing's strange, and nought unknown:
All's been done and all been said.
Tired of knowledge, now we sigh
For a little mystery.
Yet, howsoever science delves,
A few things still unplumbed remain.
We know all things save ourselves,
Cannot will our joy or pain.
Mysteries our hearts enthral;
And love's the strangest of them all.
A few things still unplumbed remain.
We know all things save ourselves,
Cannot will our joy or pain.
Mysteries our hearts enthral;
And love's the strangest of them all.
| Lyric Poems | |