THE DOUBTER
Thou Christ, my soul is hurt and bruised!
With words the scholars wear me out;
My brain o'erwearied and confused,
Thee, and myself, and all I doubt.
And must I back to darkness go
Because I cannot say their creed?
I know not what I think; I know
Only that thou art what I need.
THE PARTHENON BY MOONLIGHT
I
This is an island of the golden Past
Uplifted in the tranquil sea of night.
In the white splendor how the heart beats fast,
When climbs the pilgrim to this gleaming hight;
As might a soul, new-born, its wondering way
Take through the gates of pearl and up the stair
Into the precincts of celestial day,
So to this shrine my worshiping feet did fare.
II
But look! what tragic waste! Is Time so lavish
Of dear perfection thus to see it spilled?
'T was worth an empire;—now behold the ravish
That laid it low. The soaring plain is filled
With the wide-scattered letters of one word
Of loveliness that nevermore was spoken;
Nor ever shall its like again be heard:
Not dead is art—but that high charm is broken.
