If the Deathless dwell not in the heart of death,
If glad wisdom bloom not bursting the sheath of sorrow,
If sin do not die of its own revealment,
If pride break not under its load of decorations,
Then whence comes the hope that drives these men from their homes
like stars rushing to their death in the morning light?
Shall the value of the martyrs' blood and mothers' tears be
utterly lost in the dust of the earth, not buying Heaven with
their price?
And when Man bursts his mortal bounds, is not the Boundless
revealed that moment?



LXXXV

THE SONG OF THE DEFEATED

My Master has bid me while I stand at the roadside, to sing the
song of Defeat, for that is the bride whom He woos in secret.

She has put on the dark veil, hiding her face from the crowd, but
the jewel glows on her breast in the dark.

She is forsaken of the day, and God's night is waiting for her
with its lamps lighted and flowers wet with dew.

She is silent with her eyes downcast; she has left her home
behind her, from her home has come that wailing in the wind.