And in despair I ran, And stumbled at the marge, And saw from span to span Death’s ocean rolling large; And only the breadth accursed Of billows barring hope, That thunder’d, ‘Death,’ and burst In tears upon the slope. Nor in the Heavens hope. The Sun drew in and shrank His flashes from the cope, And answer’d, ‘Death,’ and sank. I sought the sacred Night And solace of the Stars, For surely in their light No shade of Death appears. Like tears their Answer came, Dropt one by one from heaven; Their Answer was the same; No other word was given. IV But then the Silence said, ‘Resolve thy visioning mind: Is action for the dead Or seeing in the blind? Cry not with fruitless breath. Is it not understood, If God had utter’d Death Then also Death is good? Abandon Wrath and Ruth. Touch not the High, nor ask. For God alone the Truth. Perform thy daily task.’ * * * * * VII * * * * * THE MONSOON I What ails the solitude? Is this the Judgment Day? The sky is red as blood; The very rocks decay And crack and crumble, and There is a flame of wind Wherewith the burning sand Is ever mass’d and thin’d. Even the sickly Sun Is dimmèd by the dearth, And screaming dead leaves run About the desolate earth. Die then; we are accurst! And strike, consuming God! The very tigers thirst Too much to drink of blood; The eagle soareth not; The viper bites herself; The vulture hath forgot To rend the dying wolf. The world is white with heat; The world is rent and riv’n; The world and heavens meet; The lost stars cry in heav’n. * * * II Art thou an Angel—speak, Stupendous Cloud that comest? What wrath on whom to wreak? Redeemest thou, or doomest? Thine eyes are of the dead; A flame within thy breast Thy giant wings outspread, Like Death’s, upon the west Thy lifted locks of hair Are flames of fluttering fire; Thy countenance, of Despair Made mad with inner ire. III Who cries! The night is black As death and not as night; The world is fallen back To nothing; sound and light And moon and stars and skies, Thunder and lightning—all Gone, gone! Not even cries The cricket in the hall, The dog without. At last The end of all the hours. Was that a Spirit pass’d Between the slamming doors? We slept not yet we wake! Was it a voice that cried, ‘Awake, ye sleepless; wake, Ye deathless who have died’?