CLOUDS, with a little light between; Pain, passion, fear, and doubt, -- What voice shall tell me what they mean? I cannot find them out! Hopeless my task is, to begin, Who fail with all my power, To read the crimson lettering in The modest meadow flower. Death, with shut eyes and icy cheek, Bearing that bitter cup; Oh, who is wise enough to speak, And break its silence up! Or read the evil writing on The wall of good, for, oh, The more my reason shines upon Its lines, the less I know: Or show how dust became a rose, And what it is above All mysteries that doth compose Discordance into love. I only know that wisdom planned, And that it is my part To trust, who cannot understand The beating of my heart. |