This page has been validated.
42
One Little Year To-Day
The haze hangs on Murano—smoke from her factory fires,
Where, fashioned out of rainbow hues, on hollow iron wires,
The glass so fair, so fragile, which the skilful workmen make,
Spun shapely by a single breath, another breath will break.
The sun behind its prison-bars sinks down into the flood,
Dyeing the city's watery ways with its expiring blood.
When we shall cease in human guise to haunt this world of men,
Is that the end? or will our souls revive to live again
In some state, higher, purer far than any we have known,
With endless life and endless love, when both shall be our own?
