The Equinox (Volume I, Number III)

XXVITI S1r PaLaMEDE goes aching on (Pox of despair’s dread interdict !) Aye to the western horizon, Still meditating, sharp and strict, Upon the changes of the earth, Its towers and temples derelict, The ready ruin of its mirth, The flowers, the fruits, the leaves that fall, The joy of life, its growing girth— And nothing as the end of all. Yea, even as the Yang-tze rolled Its rapids past him, so the wall Of things brake down; his eyes behold The mighty Beast serenely couched Upon its breast of burnished gold. “ Ah! by Christ's blood!” (his soul avouched), “ Nothing but change (but change!) abides. Death lurks, a leopard curled and crouched,