COUCHANT upon the illimitable sand, Like some huge Libyan lion, human-faced, The solemn march of centuries thou hast traced With brooding eyes that seem to understand The secrets of the ages, -- whose the hand That rolls the stars along the ethereal waste, And for what purpose suffering man is placed Upon this orb, to be or blessed or banned. In elder years did suppliants bend the knee Before thine awful presence reverently, Beseeching answer with adoring breath; Yet wert thou mute, as thou wilt ever be, Enigma, like our mortal destiny, Inscrutable as is the face of death! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE HILL WIFE: THE OFT-REPEATED DREAM by ROBERT FROST EASTER by CHARLOTTE LOUISE BERTLESEN AH, WOE IS ME! MY MOTHER DEAR by ROBERT BURNS SONNET: 271 by LUIS DE CAMOENS SONGS OF THE SEA CHILDREN: 32 by BLISS CARMAN THE GRAVEDIGGER by BLISS CARMAN |