THE GREAT SILENCE

Magnificent, my Own, Across the City’s crash of sound, Above the marching of her war-shod feet, I hear you call, “I am alone,—alone!” In that full, tragic voice of yours repeat, Echo and tone, “Alone,—I am alone!”

Oh, Splendid One, The stars still hang the City’s night With peace and light! What wars could ever bind The signing of God’s universe in space? You turn your eyes, Burning, ancient, wise, And speak, “All have I seen, Evil and good, All man has been, All man has done,— And I am blind.” But God, I cried ... Then came your moan, Like Pontius Pilate overthrown, “God I have denied!”

Magnificent, my Own, There beyond the City’s sky Are pinnacle and dream, The rushing of a mighty stream, The night-wind’s cry And thunder-harp of pine. “Oh, Christ,” you weep, “They are not mine, They are not mine! I cannot see, I cannot hear, Only I remember year on year Abel and Cain. Yet somewhere in this welter of my pain I keep Memory of another,— those two lost syllables of doom.” “What syllables are they, my Own?” “That word is ‘Brother’!”