POEM: THE POINT OF VIEW: II.

In the wood of lost causes, the valley of tears,

Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult way;

Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears:

“It is night, it is night, it has never been day;

Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight;

It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night.

Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer,

For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her hands.”

Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie

In the arms of despair that is masked as delight,

You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear:

“It is day, it is day, it has never been night!

Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves;

It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves,

Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer

Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands.”