Normale Version: ROBERT BROWNING.1
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THE Century was young—the month was May—
The spacious East was kindled with a light
That lent a sudden glory to the night,
And a new star began its upward way
Toward the high splendor of the perfect day:
With pure white flame, inexorably bright,
It reached the souls of men—no stain so slight
As to escape its all-revealing ray.
When countless voices cried, "The Star has set!"
And through the lands there surged a sea of pain,
Was it Death's triumph—victory of Woe?—
Nay! There are lights the sky may not forget:
When suns, and moons, and souls shall rise again,
In the New Life's wide East that star shall glow.