- AT THE END OF THE WORLD
THE patient earth, the breathless trees,
Have listened here for centuries.
Have listened under the silver moon
To this little streamlet's flowing.
Hearing nothing in its going
Save its own enchanted tune.
Oh, how silent on moss and stone
Sleeps the whole world's bitter wrong!
While the shadow of love, lying alone.
Listens to the streamlet's song.
At the end of the world this place might be!
So hushed are the shadows, so hushed the grass;
So hushed are the hemlocks of mystery,
Waiting for feet that never pass!
Listen! A voice out of the night!
A voice from the silence — a passionate cry —
Beautiful, terrible, infinite!
The voice of a god who comes to die.
And the patient earth and the breathless trees
Turn to that voice; and the listening air
Yearns to it, thro' the immensities.
As tho' God Himself were dying there.
