How sore the burden, strange the strife;
how full of splendour, wonder, fear;
Life, atom of that Infinite Space
that stretcheth ’twixt the Here and There.
How Thought is imp’otent to divine
the secret which the gods defend,
The Why of birth and life and death,
that Isis-veil no hand may rend.
Eternal Morrows make our Day;
our Is is aye to be till when
Night closes in; ’tis all a dream,
and yet we die,—and then and THEN?
And still the Weaver plies his loom,
whose warp and woof is wretched Man
Weaving th’ unpattern’d dark design,
so dark we doubt it owns a plan.