36 
THE WORLD’S TRAGEDY. 
 
The doing is done ; 
Bare is mine head 
To the fire of the sun. 
But thou, o my Lord, are quiet and still ; 
And the feathers are clipt from the wings of the will. 
 
 
Still are thy lips 
And void of motion, 
Like red-sailed ships 
On a windless ocean ? 
Hast thou no lust 
To involve in a curse 
The insane dust 
Of the universe ? 
Speak, o my Lord !  I have journeyed afar 
In the wake of the terrible crimson star. 
 
 
A harp between mine hands, 
Murmurous and musical, 
I come from far-off lands 
To seek Thee who are All. 
Amid my warrior bands 
I rode in kingly wise : 
Thy light upon mine eyes !