BY JAMES THOMSON
HE cried out through the
night:
"Where is the light?
Shall nevermore
Open Heaven's door?
Oh, I am left
Lonely, bereft!" He
cried out through the night:
It spread vaguely white,
With its ghost of a moon
Above the dark swoon
Of the earth lying chill,
Breathless, grave still. He
cried out through the night:
His voice in its might
Rang forth far and far,
And then like a star
Dwindled from sense
In the Immense. He
cried out through the night:
No answering light,
No syllabled sound;
Beneath and around
A long shuddering thrill
Then all again still.
