A SIGN
How shall I know when the end of things is coming?
The dark swifts flitting, the drone-bees humming;
The fly on the window-pane bedazedly strumming;
Ice on the waterbrooks their clear chimes dumbing—
How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
The stars in their stations will shine glamorous in
the black;
Emptiness, as ever, haunt the great Star Sack;
And Venus, proud and beautiful, go down to meet
the day,
Pale in phosphorescence of the green sea spray—
How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
Head asleep on pillow; the peewits at their crying;
A strange face in dreams to my rapt phantasma sighing;
Silence beyond words of anguished passion;
Or stammering an answer in the tongue's cold fashion—
How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
Haply on strange roads I shall be, the moorland's
peace around me;
Or counting up a fortune to which Destiny hath
bound me;
Or—Vanity of Vanities—the honey of the Fair;
Or a greybeard, lost to memory, on the cobbles in
my chair—
How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
The drummers will be drumming; the fiddlers at
their thrumming;
Nuns at their beads; the mummers at their mumming;
Heaven's solemn Seraph stoopt weary o'er his summing;
The palsied fingers plucking, the way-worn feet numbling—
And the end of things coming.