THE spheres are weary of the ether wind, weary of humming endlessly; their praise of God thrills not as when it rolled forth when God himself was young. Nature wakes every morning lame from giving birth, the valleys faint to view the long exhaustion of the hills, the mounting ages are as vain as the flutter of a paper prayer. Mould, not truth, lies under the interesting heaps of refuse of the scientists. The flame of faith, beaten out and scattered abroad by the clumsy wiles of states that detest their swollen greatness, flickers and sinks. Comfortless art crumbles to dust in prisons, out of doors in factories and advertisements, beauty takes on unhappy forms ... The choristers of God are weary of his court, to Seraph love seems flat; to Cherub knowledge stale. Michael yearns to splinter his two-handed sword, and pare the sable wings of Azrael to the quick. All the servants of the Lord see that their tasks are hopeless. Yet out the burning caverns of deep space, God, though he aches with his weariness, scourges our backs, with his relentless whip: roaring and rolling through the shuddering all, comes his command, "Go on!" Myself, stand against the black drift of storms, trustful as the appealing brave, praying with his arms, invincible as Hamilton in granite, firm as a colossal crucifix upon a mountain trail forever changeless against a changing sky. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SYNOPSIS OF A FAILED POEM by JAMES GALVIN FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE by EMMA LAZARUS ON A TUFT OF GRASS by EMMA LAZARUS GLASS HOUSES by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON HORACE TO LEUCONOE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON PRELUDE; FOR GEOFFREY GORER by EDITH SITWELL |