OM EMORY , the fountains of thy Deep
Are broken up, and all its fairy shells
Lie glimmering after each dim billow's sweep:
Once we but saw the rose-bloom in their cells,
And melody was in the sounds alone;
We see the pallor now, and hear the moan.

Our images lie broken in the sand,
Our blossoms wither'd in the mist, we say;
Our summer birds have left the snowy land,
Phantoms of tropic songs, and flown away;
Our gorgeous buds have borne no golden fruit;
Our desert's singing springs are dry and mute.

Sweet souls have gone above the awful stars,
Tired hearts are heavy in the dark below;
The world is blasted with the breath of wars,
And Heaven folds close the Secret we would know;
Blind shapes of storm move in the gloom, and where
Is the white wing of Calm to light the air?

Weird Something, crown'd with bloody asphodels,
In whose dark watch twelve moons dropp'd faded light,
We see thy red path mark'd with bursted shells,
And ghosts of cannon-thunder haunt the night;
Thy sword has done its work, but work remains:
The victory waits for other ghastly plains.

Like Memnon, singing in old legend, we
Have given to the setting light our sighs:
Great Angel of the Mystery to be!
Help us to hail its unveil'd glory rise,
And lay the beauty of a faith divine,
The soul's myrrh-offering, on its morning shrine.

And if when its last sun is gone we moan
Slow, tremulous dirges full of broken sound;
If whiter images are overthrown;
If Time's most kingly hopes are yet uncrown'd;
If fiercer signs glare on the walls of Fate—
We know that God is God, and Man can wait.