22
POEMS.
THE IMAGE OF THE EARTHY.
Sleep, tired eyes. Your tender flame is fled,
As on dim hills the watch-fires had burnt low;
You, who have speculated, wondered, read,
Viewed the hereafter with a passionate dread,
When next those white lids open, you will know.
As on dim hills the watch-fires had burnt low;
You, who have speculated, wondered, read,
Viewed the hereafter with a passionate dread,
When next those white lids open, you will know.
Sleep, weary brain. Life is a stormy sky,
And we, like restless birds, tossed to and fro,
Imperfect atoms of the eternal "why,"
Circling and drifting onward aimlessly,
Not knowing whence we come, nor where we go.
And we, like restless birds, tossed to and fro,
Imperfect atoms of the eternal "why,"
Circling and drifting onward aimlessly,
Not knowing whence we come, nor where we go.
Sleep, wayward heart. If love were sinful, dear,
Knowing its price, would we not pay the whole,
And count the winning of a life's love here,
The wild reality of hearts brought near,
Well worth the losing of a phantom soul?
Knowing its price, would we not pay the whole,
And count the winning of a life's love here,
The wild reality of hearts brought near,
Well worth the losing of a phantom soul?
