Holy thou art and still! Be so, nor sound

One sigh of all the mystery in thee found.

II

For in this world too much is overclear,

Immortal Ministrant to many lands,

From whose ice-altars flow to fainting sands[Pg 27]

[Pg 27]

Rivers that each libation poured expands.

Too much is known, O Ganges-giving sire;

Thy people fathom life and find it dire,

Thy people fathom death, and, in it, fire

To live again, tho in Illusion's sphere,

Behold concealed as Grief is in a tear.

III

Wherefore continue, still enshrined, thy rites,

Tho dark Thibet, that dread ascetic, falls

In strange austerity, whose trance appals,

Before thee, and a suppliant on thee calls.

Continue still thy silence high and sure,

That something beyond fleeting may endure—

 Prev. P 25/86 next