Silence thine immemorial quest,
contain thy nature's vain complaint
None heeds, none cares for thee or thine;--
like thee how many came and went?

Cease, Man, to mourn, to weep, to wail;
enjoy thy shining hour of sun;
We dance along Death's icy brink,
but is the dance less full of fun?



IV


What Truths hath gleaned that Sage consumed
by many a moon that waxt and waned?
What Prophet-strain be his to sing?
What hath his old Experience gained?

There is no God, no man-made God;
a bigger, stronger, crueller man;
Black phantom of our baby-fears,
ere Thought, the life of Life, began.

Right quoth the Hindu Prince of old,*
"An Ishwara for one I nill,
Th' almighty everlasting Good
who cannot 'bate th' Eternal Ill:"