21.06.2007, 21:22
ROBERT BROWNING.
I. HIS STAR.
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.
I. HIS STAR.
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.