[BNP/E3, 78 – 57]

Requiescat.

For thee the veil of the temple is rent

And the holy of holies laid bare...

Hath mystery thy being spent

With tragic muteness eloquent;

Or with the horror living there

     Is thy dead spirit blent?

Whate'er contains now thy vision's scope,

Howe'er it be, thou canst not be mad

At shadows dread for which we grope,

And at thy heart together did fade

The pleasure that doth make us sad

     And the pain that makes us hope.

Alexander Search

August 26^th 1907.