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THE POETS.
51
Not our great nights
Whose dark unmeasured windy mystery,
Whose falls, whose heights
No heart doth feel, no eye doth see,
For ever.
No, Lord, no.
Nor our great open secret snow,
Where comes the sun at even and morn
To be alone,
And wild winds seeking solitude for their torn
And wounded souls. Can these atone,
Shall these repay?
No, nor the dawns we know,
Whose thoughts grow light on our eternal snow.
We mourn, we pray:
Oh, melt our snows to rain.
How can we reach thee?
Lay us low.
Level us with the plain,
Oh, we beseech thee.
Second Voice:
O cold and glorious!
