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WHAT know we of the dead, who say these things, Or of the life in death below the mould— What of the mystic laws that rule the old Gray realms beyond our poor imaginings Where death is life? The bird with spray-wet wings Knows more of what the deeps beneath him hold. Let be: warm hearts shall never wax a-cold, But burn in roses through eternal springs: For all the vanished fruit and flower of Time Are flower and fruit in worlds we cannot see, And all we see is as a shadow-mime Of things unseen, and Time that comes to flee Is but the broken echo of a rhyme In God’s great epic of Eternity. |