night.
155
IX.
O night, a terrible dismay still lurks
In thy close caves. Is there another grief
Than mine upon my soul, or spectral leaf
In the great record of the years, where works,
Not dreams, find place—a task declined
Which the wise heavens appointed for my own
Nay, or a haunting memory to strike down
The future's open hand;—then, down the wind
With sadly human eyes, but fanged like wolves,
The pale Erinnyes sweep. O happy, then,
If I with night-long prayer may win again
Lost faith—faith in Eternity that solves
Time's stoniest spectres—faith in the broad
Serenity of things—yes, faith in the good God!
In thy close caves. Is there another grief
Than mine upon my soul, or spectral leaf
In the great record of the years, where works,
Not dreams, find place—a task declined
Which the wise heavens appointed for my own
Nay, or a haunting memory to strike down
The future's open hand;—then, down the wind
With sadly human eyes, but fanged like wolves,
The pale Erinnyes sweep. O happy, then,
If I with night-long prayer may win again
Lost faith—faith in Eternity that solves
Time's stoniest spectres—faith in the broad
Serenity of things—yes, faith in the good God!
