Where is the promise of my years;
Once written on my brow?
Ere errors, agonies and fears
Ashkelon is not cut off with the remnant of a valley.
Baldness dwells not upon Gaza.
I see her yet, that dark-eyed one,
Whose bounding heart God folded up
In His, as shuts when day is done,
Upon the elf the blossom's cup.
In the Beginning, God, the great Schoolmaster, wrote upon the white leaves of our souls the text of life, in His own autograph.
'Carry me out of the host, for I am wounded.'
The battle waged strong.
A fainting soul was borne from the host.
Who hath not sent out ships to sea?
Who hath not toiled through light and darkness to make them strong for battle?
Bright as the light that burns at night
In the starry depths of Aiden,
When star and moon in leafy June
Where shall I lead the flocks to-day?
Is there no Horeb for me beyond this desert?
Is there no rod with which I can divide this sea of blood to
Look on that form, once fit for the sculptor!
Look on that cheek, where the roses have died!
Working and waiting have robbed from the artist
To me, for ever, the seat near the blood of the feast.