Ii

This moonèd Desert round, Those deeps before me spread, I sought for Hope, and found Him beautiful, but dead.

In this resounding Waste I sought for Hope, and cried, ‘Where art thou, Hope?’—Aghast, I found that he had died.

I cried for Hope. The Briars Pointed the way he’d gone; Cold were the Heav’nly Fires, Colder the numb-lipped Moon.

‘Where art thou, Hope?’—‘I go, Returning,’ he had said; I found him white as snow And beautiful, but dead.

He would return, he said. When that I heeded not, Lo, he had fallen dead. Dead; Hope is dead; is not.

I tear my hands with briars, My face in earth I thrust; I curse the heav’nly fires, I drink the desert dust.

A threat of thunder fills Us. Lo, a voice! The waves A breathless horror stills; The sand, a sea of graves.

Methought the mocking Moon Open’d her yellow lips And spake. The Planets swoon In vapoury eclipse.

‘Fool, all the world is dust; Even I who shine on thee. There perish and add thy dust To that sepulchral sea.’