Thou Ghost, I said, “and is thy name To-day?-
Yesterday’s son, with such an abject brow!-
And can To-morrow be more pale than thou?”
While yet I spoke, the silence answered: “Yea,
Henceforth our issue is all grieved and grey,
And each beforehand makes such poor avow
As of old leaves beneath the budding bough
Or night-drift that the sundawn shreds away.”
Then cried I: “Mother of many malisons,
O Earth, receive me to thy dusty bed!”
But therewithal the tremulous silence said:
“Lo! Love yet bids thy lady greet thee once:-
Yea, twice,-whereby thy life is still the sun’s;
And thrice,-whereby the shadow of death is dead.”
(Dante Gabriel Rossetti)
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