26
A LITTLE CHILD'S MONUMENT.
By one supreme pale presence, Monte d'Oro!
His spirit-robes far floating, a dim grey,
Sombre with forest, pallid with the moon,
His kingly crest snow-gleaming to the stars.
Pan is not dead! He lives! He lives for ever!
These awful Demiurgic Powers named Nature
Nourish, involve a half-alive, blind soul,
A human soul, who fondly deems them dead.
Surely the Lord is making us alive!
Mine aching wound shall heal; for I shall find
My lost, for whom I long; from thee, my friend,
The weary burden of thy doubt shall pass.
Sorrow and Wrong are pangs of a new birth:
All we who suffer bleed for one another;
No life may live alone, but all in all;
We lie within the tomb of our dead selves,
Waiting till One command us to arise.
