Soul-Scorn

No cloak of cloudy wrack The mistless mystery mars, But all the desert is black Beneath the quivering stars.

I hear the pinions creak Of night-birds, beating by; And lost hyaenas shriek Unto the spectral sky.

The Stars, immortal Sons Of God, are full of fire; But we, rejected ones, Know heav’n but in desire.

My Soul said, ‘Art thou dead? The chasm of night is riv’n; What dost thou see?’ I said, ‘The full-fired fires of heav’n.’

‘Look not but see,’ he said. I said, ‘I know not whether They are the hosts of God Clashing their spears together.

So bright the stars appear Their splendour smokes in heav’n; I think indeed I hear Their distant voices ev’n.’

He said, ‘See not but know.’ I said, ‘I cannot see; I think perhaps they go To some great victory.’

He said, ‘For ever they go, Still onward, on and on; And that is why they know The victory’s clarion.’

I said, ‘I am too weak To do more than I must.’ He said, ‘Then cease to seek And perish in the dust.’

* * * * *