The end with outstretched hands Provides the balm That gives the slipping sands Of time their calm. The dark bewilders and the light entices. The end suffices. The things forlorn we glance at as we go; Dim patches of bleached grass, And floating wreckage tossed on desolate seas, And all the piteous faces that we pass, And all the flow Of all the tears those piteous faces show, The end suffices these. O end of all things giving all things peace And bringing them release! It is enough to name thee and be dumb. That thou must come, Unasked, unspeeded, At last to all, in answer unto all; No more is needed. This fungus-thing unfurled, This blunder, this contortion, this huge blot, That it should linger not, But into cool deep wells of death be hurled, How just, how blest! But let there be for us no after-world, Lord of Eternal Rest! |