THE empty dark reëchoes shout for shout To men shut fast in their own littleness: Men have no wisdom that can let them out, And thoughts are futile in their deep distress; Small mortal thoughts, that grow not very bold, But ask their questions trembling and alone... This disembodied passion that I hold Cries for its answer, even as their own. Soon I shall tire of shouting, and sink down To make replies for my own questionings— Fill me a level sea in which to drown, And build a rapturous heaven for shut wings, Forest me mountains measurelessly high,— Then will this passion of thought have room to die. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CAMPUS SONNET: RETURN - 1917 by STEPHEN VINCENT BENET BEARS AT RASPBERRY TIME by HAYDEN CARRUTH ON BRODSKY'S COLLECTED by MICHAEL S. HARPER SUNSET by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON COUNTRYWOMEN by KATHERINE MANSFIELD NEW NEIGHBORHOOD by KAREN SWENSON THE CHINESE LAUNDRYMAN by KAREN SWENSON |