Ever, as he grew older, life becameMore sacred to him.“In a thousand yearsMan will look back with horror on this worldWhere men could babble about the Lamb of God,Then turn and kill for food one living thingThat looks through two great eyes, so like their own.I have had living creatures killed for me;But I will have no more.”“Though Nature laughedHis mood to scorn,” said Shadow-of-a-Leaf, “the dayWill come (I have seen it come a myriad times)When, through one mood like this, Nature will climbOut of its nature, and make all things new.Who prophesied cities, when the first blind lifeCrawled from the sea, to breathe that strange bright air,And conquer its own past?”—“I have no theory of this wild strange world,”Said Jean Guettard,“But, if the God that made it dies with usInto immortal life....”“There, there’s the meaning,” whispered Shadow-of-a-Leaf,“Could we but grasp it. There’s the harmonyOf life, and death, and all our mortal pain.”I heard that old man whispering in the dark,“O, little human life, so lost to sightAmong the eternal ages, I, at least,Find in this very darkness the one FactThat bows my soul before you.”Once againThe mists began to roll away like smoke.I saw a patch of vines upon the hillAbove Étampes; and through the mists I sawOld Jean Guettard, with snowy wind-blown hair,Nearing the shrouded summit. As he climbed,Slowly the last thin veils dissolved away.He lifted up his eyes to see the Rock.The hill was bare. His facts were well confirmed.Sun, wind, and rain, and the sharp chisels of frostHad broken it down. The Rock was on its wayIn brook and river, with all the drifting hills,And all his life, to the remembering sea.He looked around him, furtively. None was near.Down, on his knees,Among the weather-worn shards of his lost youth,Dropt Jean Guettard.The mist closed over him.The world dissolved away. The vision died,Leaving me only a voice within the heart,Far off, yet near, the whisper of Shadow-of-a-Leaf.The rain had beaten. The wind had blown.The hill was bare as the sky that day.Mother and Child from the height had gone.The wind and rain, said Jean Guettard,Had crumbled even the Rock away.
Ever, as he grew older, life becameMore sacred to him.“In a thousand yearsMan will look back with horror on this worldWhere men could babble about the Lamb of God,Then turn and kill for food one living thingThat looks through two great eyes, so like their own.I have had living creatures killed for me;But I will have no more.”“Though Nature laughedHis mood to scorn,” said Shadow-of-a-Leaf, “the dayWill come (I have seen it come a myriad times)When, through one mood like this, Nature will climbOut of its nature, and make all things new.Who prophesied cities, when the first blind lifeCrawled from the sea, to breathe that strange bright air,And conquer its own past?”—“I have no theory of this wild strange world,”Said Jean Guettard,“But, if the God that made it dies with usInto immortal life....”“There, there’s the meaning,” whispered Shadow-of-a-Leaf,“Could we but grasp it. There’s the harmonyOf life, and death, and all our mortal pain.”I heard that old man whispering in the dark,“O, little human life, so lost to sightAmong the eternal ages, I, at least,Find in this very darkness the one FactThat bows my soul before you.”Once againThe mists began to roll away like smoke.I saw a patch of vines upon the hillAbove Étampes; and through the mists I sawOld Jean Guettard, with snowy wind-blown hair,Nearing the shrouded summit. As he climbed,Slowly the last thin veils dissolved away.He lifted up his eyes to see the Rock.The hill was bare. His facts were well confirmed.Sun, wind, and rain, and the sharp chisels of frostHad broken it down. The Rock was on its wayIn brook and river, with all the drifting hills,And all his life, to the remembering sea.He looked around him, furtively. None was near.Down, on his knees,Among the weather-worn shards of his lost youth,Dropt Jean Guettard.The mist closed over him.The world dissolved away. The vision died,Leaving me only a voice within the heart,Far off, yet near, the whisper of Shadow-of-a-Leaf.The rain had beaten. The wind had blown.The hill was bare as the sky that day.Mother and Child from the height had gone.The wind and rain, said Jean Guettard,Had crumbled even the Rock away.
Ever, as he grew older, life becameMore sacred to him.“In a thousand yearsMan will look back with horror on this worldWhere men could babble about the Lamb of God,Then turn and kill for food one living thingThat looks through two great eyes, so like their own.I have had living creatures killed for me;But I will have no more.”“Though Nature laughedHis mood to scorn,” said Shadow-of-a-Leaf, “the dayWill come (I have seen it come a myriad times)When, through one mood like this, Nature will climbOut of its nature, and make all things new.Who prophesied cities, when the first blind lifeCrawled from the sea, to breathe that strange bright air,And conquer its own past?”—“I have no theory of this wild strange world,”Said Jean Guettard,“But, if the God that made it dies with usInto immortal life....”“There, there’s the meaning,” whispered Shadow-of-a-Leaf,“Could we but grasp it. There’s the harmonyOf life, and death, and all our mortal pain.”I heard that old man whispering in the dark,“O, little human life, so lost to sightAmong the eternal ages, I, at least,Find in this very darkness the one FactThat bows my soul before you.”Once againThe mists began to roll away like smoke.I saw a patch of vines upon the hillAbove Étampes; and through the mists I sawOld Jean Guettard, with snowy wind-blown hair,Nearing the shrouded summit. As he climbed,Slowly the last thin veils dissolved away.He lifted up his eyes to see the Rock.The hill was bare. His facts were well confirmed.Sun, wind, and rain, and the sharp chisels of frostHad broken it down. The Rock was on its wayIn brook and river, with all the drifting hills,And all his life, to the remembering sea.He looked around him, furtively. None was near.Down, on his knees,Among the weather-worn shards of his lost youth,Dropt Jean Guettard.The mist closed over him.The world dissolved away. The vision died,Leaving me only a voice within the heart,Far off, yet near, the whisper of Shadow-of-a-Leaf.
Ever, as he grew older, life became
More sacred to him.
“In a thousand years
Man will look back with horror on this world
Where men could babble about the Lamb of God,
Then turn and kill for food one living thing
That looks through two great eyes, so like their own.
I have had living creatures killed for me;
But I will have no more.”
“Though Nature laughed
His mood to scorn,” said Shadow-of-a-Leaf, “the day
Will come (I have seen it come a myriad times)
When, through one mood like this, Nature will climb
Out of its nature, and make all things new.
Who prophesied cities, when the first blind life
Crawled from the sea, to breathe that strange bright air,
And conquer its own past?”—
“I have no theory of this wild strange world,”
Said Jean Guettard,
“But, if the God that made it dies with us
Into immortal life....”
“There, there’s the meaning,” whispered Shadow-of-a-Leaf,
“Could we but grasp it. There’s the harmony
Of life, and death, and all our mortal pain.”
I heard that old man whispering in the dark,
“O, little human life, so lost to sight
Among the eternal ages, I, at least,
Find in this very darkness the one Fact
That bows my soul before you.”
Once again
The mists began to roll away like smoke.
I saw a patch of vines upon the hill
Above Étampes; and through the mists I saw
Old Jean Guettard, with snowy wind-blown hair,
Nearing the shrouded summit. As he climbed,
Slowly the last thin veils dissolved away.
He lifted up his eyes to see the Rock.
The hill was bare. His facts were well confirmed.
Sun, wind, and rain, and the sharp chisels of frost
Had broken it down. The Rock was on its way
In brook and river, with all the drifting hills,
And all his life, to the remembering sea.
He looked around him, furtively. None was near.
Down, on his knees,
Among the weather-worn shards of his lost youth,
Dropt Jean Guettard.
The mist closed over him.
The world dissolved away. The vision died,
Leaving me only a voice within the heart,
Far off, yet near, the whisper of Shadow-of-a-Leaf.
The rain had beaten. The wind had blown.The hill was bare as the sky that day.Mother and Child from the height had gone.The wind and rain, said Jean Guettard,Had crumbled even the Rock away.
The rain had beaten. The wind had blown.
The hill was bare as the sky that day.
Mother and Child from the height had gone.
The wind and rain, said Jean Guettard,
Had crumbled even the Rock away.