XV

There is a void that reason can not face,
Nor wisdom comprehend, nor sweating will
Diminish, nor the rain of April fill,
And I am weary of this wan grimace.
Behold I touch the garments of all ill
And do not wash my hands; a dusty place
Unprobed by light becomes a loud mill race
That swirls together straw and daffodil.

It is untrue that vigil can not trace
The orbits which upon our births distil
The filtered dew of fate; I saw the hill
That I must climb, and gauged the upward pace;
And now upon the night's worn window sill,
I wait and smile. Hail, Judas, full of grace.


XVI

The mirrors of all ages are the eyes
Of some remembering god, wherein are sealed
The beauties of the world, the April field,
Young faces, blowing hair, and autumn skies.
The mirrors of the world shall break, and yield
To life again what never really dies;
The forms and colours of earth's pageantries,