To An Idle Poem by John Bannister Tabb

Mute oracle of meek humanity,
Save to its sense of blindness wholly blind,
That drifting wide in misery, to find
Some beacon o'er the night-encumbered sea,
Steered in pathetic ignorance to thee;
What sighs, what tears-of agony confined
Within the sunless prison of the mind,
Walled up of doubt, and locked in mystery,
Couldst thou, if thought were voluble, reveal,
Of panting love, and hopes all winged to rise
But netted of bewilderment, and worn
To thin despair, deep-shuddering to feel
No warmth below, above, no sympathies,
No rest but in oblivion forlorn!