  Night has its fear: As the slow dusk advances, and the day Fades out in fire along the starry way, The ancient doubt draws near. Vague shapes of dread— Soft owl, or moth, and timid, twittering things— Move through the growing dark; on furtive wings The bat flits overhead. And in the house The death-watch ticks, the dust of time is stirred With timorous footfalls, in the night is heard The gnawing of the mouse. Through the old room What phantoms throng, what shapes that to and fro Tremble, and lips that laughed here long ago— Gone back into the gloom! A whip-poor-will Bleakly across the baleful country cries From a blurred mouth; and from the west replies Echo—and all is still. Now from her shell, Her body’s prison, with the ancient doubt And terror stricken, the scared soul looks out, Asking if all be well. Great kings have been, Poets, and mighty prophets—shapes have cried About the world, or moved in mournful pride; And are no longer seen. From many lands Their plaint was lifted; from how many a shore Sorrows have wailed, that are not any more! They sleep with folded hands. They have their day: Their cry is loud about the earth, who come To the one end; the singing lips grow dumb Always in the one way. Though they implore, Brief is the plea, inflexible the fate! Silence has the last word; and then—the great Silence, forevermore. Pondering these, The fretful spirit in bewilderment Quickens with a vague doubt, and, not content, Broods—and is ill at ease. Her being is Throned on so frail a pulse; such fleeting breath Bears up her dream across the gulf of death And the obscure abyss. Always she hears The hurtling chariots of the hurrying blood, Her shuttling breath that in the solitude Weaves the one self she wears. Now first the vast Veil over heaven is rent, and bares the whole Shining Reality; whereat the soul Sickens, and is aghast! Darkness reveals The tragic truth; her will sinks hopeless wings Before the inexorable Fact of things, Humbling the dread she feels. With the old Awes Confronted and the flaming Mystery, She may not speak; but pondering, suddenly Grows silent, and withdraws. She may not bear That sight: the spangled heavens, from east to west, Stretch out too wide the confines of the breast, Straining in wonder there. Upon what Brow Of awful eminence—O thought that stuns!— Is laid that chaplet of a million suns, Upon what Forehead now? Who was it wrought This universal glory all around, Of glittering worlds forever without bound?— Great Poet, what a Thought! It is a Word Unutterable that is written there; The spirit, gazing, is one voiceless prayer, Careless if it be heard. Her thoughts ascend, Star beyond star, height beyond aching height Upward, in adoration infinite, Forever, without end. So shall it be! Till heaven yield her sceptre; till the throne Of night be shaken, and the Face be known Beyond eternity: Till God divide And rend asunder the embroidered hem Of darkness; till the starry diadem |
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