 | The Comrades |  |
III
And soon the selfish clinging unto sense,
The longing that this Me should never fail,
Loosed quivering hands, for oh! of what avail
Were such survival of intelligence,
If all the great and good of days gone by—
Plato, Hypatia, Shakespeare—had surceased,
Had mingled with the cloud, the plant, the beast,
And God were but a mythos of the sky?
The longing that this Me should never fail,
Loosed quivering hands, for oh! of what avail
Were such survival of intelligence,
142
Plato, Hypatia, Shakespeare—had surceased,
Had mingled with the cloud, the plant, the beast,
And God were but a mythos of the sky?
And when I thought, o'ershadowed with strange awe,
How Christ was dead—had ceased in utter woe,
With that great cry “Forsaken!” on the cross,
I felt at first a sense of bitter loss,
And then grew passive, saying, “Be it so!
'Tis one with Christ and Judas. 'Tis the law!”
How Christ was dead—had ceased in utter woe,
With that great cry “Forsaken!” on the cross,
I felt at first a sense of bitter loss,
And then grew passive, saying, “Be it so!
'Tis one with Christ and Judas. 'Tis the law!”
| The Comrades | |