Iii

In exile here I trod And with presumptuous breath Call’d out aloud for God: The Answer came from Death.

O World, thy quest is cold; O World, who answereth? Distracted thou hast call’d; The Answer came from Death.

I call’d for God and heard No voice but that of Death: Then came the bitter word, ‘Fool, God himself is Death.

Great Death; not little death That nips the flowers unfurl’d And stays the infant’s breath; But Death that slays the world.

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.