I
The human lifts a wailing to be heard,
And clinging hands to clutch the dim Unknown
That draws forever back behind His throne
Who gives good gifts; but speaketh not a word.
II
The world grows old: still lifts the bitter breath:
Why? Tell us--Why? behind our prison bars!
O Children! are we wise? Hope crown'd with stars
Is ours--and Love that dieth not--and Death!
