13
IV.
And the thought would come, ’mid the smoke
and hum—
Must there evermore be strife?
Is the last decree that death must be
Ere man can Jive his life?
V.
And I longed to rest on the peaceful breast
Of the white-robed angel, Night;
But the moon rose red, and my hopes fell
dead—
All things were touched with blight.,
VI.
A slow hour passed, and wearied at last
By the everlasting .“Why ?”
I slept awhile—then woke with a smile
For the white moon sailing high.
VII.
And I saw it all—how the smoky pall
Was only a man-made screen
That dimmed the light of the queen of night
Till she rose to a height serene.
