A SIGN
HOW shall I know when the end of things is coming?The dark swifts flitting, the drone-bees humming;The fly on the window-pane bedazedly strumming;Ice on the waterbrooks their clear chimes dumbing—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?The stars in their stations will shine glamorous in the black;Emptiness, as ever, haunt the great Star Sack;And Venus, proud and beautiful, go down to meet the day,Pale in phosphorescence of the green sea spray—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?Head asleep on pillow; the peewits at their crying;A strange face in dreams to my rapt phantasma sighing;Silence beyond words of anguished passion;Or stammering an answer in the tongue's cold fashion—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?Haply on strange roads I shall be, the moorland's peace around me;Or counting up a fortune to which Destiny hath bound me;Or—Vanity of Vanities—the honey of the Fair;Or a greybeard, lost to memory, on the cobbles in my chair—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?The drummers will be drumming; the fiddlers at their thrumming;Nuns at their beads; the mummers at their mumming;Heaven's solemn Seraph stoopt weary o'er his summing;The palsied fingers plucking, the way-worn feet numbing—And the end of things coming.
HOW shall I know when the end of things is coming?The dark swifts flitting, the drone-bees humming;The fly on the window-pane bedazedly strumming;Ice on the waterbrooks their clear chimes dumbing—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?The stars in their stations will shine glamorous in the black;Emptiness, as ever, haunt the great Star Sack;And Venus, proud and beautiful, go down to meet the day,Pale in phosphorescence of the green sea spray—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?Head asleep on pillow; the peewits at their crying;A strange face in dreams to my rapt phantasma sighing;Silence beyond words of anguished passion;Or stammering an answer in the tongue's cold fashion—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?Haply on strange roads I shall be, the moorland's peace around me;Or counting up a fortune to which Destiny hath bound me;Or—Vanity of Vanities—the honey of the Fair;Or a greybeard, lost to memory, on the cobbles in my chair—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?The drummers will be drumming; the fiddlers at their thrumming;Nuns at their beads; the mummers at their mumming;Heaven's solemn Seraph stoopt weary o'er his summing;The palsied fingers plucking, the way-worn feet numbing—And the end of things coming.
HOW shall I know when the end of things is coming?The dark swifts flitting, the drone-bees humming;The fly on the window-pane bedazedly strumming;Ice on the waterbrooks their clear chimes dumbing—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
HOW shall I know when the end of things is coming?
The dark swifts flitting, the drone-bees humming;
The fly on the window-pane bedazedly strumming;
Ice on the waterbrooks their clear chimes dumbing—
How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
The stars in their stations will shine glamorous in the black;Emptiness, as ever, haunt the great Star Sack;And Venus, proud and beautiful, go down to meet the day,Pale in phosphorescence of the green sea spray—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
The stars in their stations will shine glamorous in the black;
Emptiness, as ever, haunt the great Star Sack;
And Venus, proud and beautiful, go down to meet the day,
Pale in phosphorescence of the green sea spray—
How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
Head asleep on pillow; the peewits at their crying;A strange face in dreams to my rapt phantasma sighing;Silence beyond words of anguished passion;Or stammering an answer in the tongue's cold fashion—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
Head asleep on pillow; the peewits at their crying;
A strange face in dreams to my rapt phantasma sighing;
Silence beyond words of anguished passion;
Or stammering an answer in the tongue's cold fashion—
How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
Haply on strange roads I shall be, the moorland's peace around me;Or counting up a fortune to which Destiny hath bound me;Or—Vanity of Vanities—the honey of the Fair;Or a greybeard, lost to memory, on the cobbles in my chair—How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
Haply on strange roads I shall be, the moorland's peace around me;
Or counting up a fortune to which Destiny hath bound me;
Or—Vanity of Vanities—the honey of the Fair;
Or a greybeard, lost to memory, on the cobbles in my chair—
How shall I know that the end of things is coming?
The drummers will be drumming; the fiddlers at their thrumming;Nuns at their beads; the mummers at their mumming;Heaven's solemn Seraph stoopt weary o'er his summing;The palsied fingers plucking, the way-worn feet numbing—And the end of things coming.
The drummers will be drumming; the fiddlers at their thrumming;
Nuns at their beads; the mummers at their mumming;
Heaven's solemn Seraph stoopt weary o'er his summing;
The palsied fingers plucking, the way-worn feet numbing—
And the end of things coming.