I do not know when I shall go on—on. Some pass like falling pink-cupped buds in spring. Some stay on to the end, like forms that cling After November's russet leaves are gone. Nor what mysterious gifts await me there, Whether a meadow filled with asphodel, A milk-white charger, or I climb from hell To Heaven's minaret by golden stair. I only know that I have seen the dawn, With rose-cloud linings, amethyst, afloat, And the young moon, a curved and radiant boat, Riding the windy skies at early morn. Seeing such beauty, who could doubt the earth Reveals a paradise that gave it birth? |