87
Most desolate is this universe of ours!
The very stars must pass away
With all their human lives, with all their flowers:
To them their centuries seem but as a day
We mourn our ceaseless dead—
But there are countless stars whose light
Is quenched within the eternal night,
Whose last word has been said.
Far more in number than the bright live orbs
Are these whose work is done:
Their ranks are ever swollen, as time absorbs
The light and heat of many an aging sun.
In this vast pathless universe I groan;
I have no hold on night, no grasp of day:
O mother, thou wast all my own!
When thou wast here, I never lost my way.
The very stars must pass away
With all their human lives, with all their flowers:
To them their centuries seem but as a day
We mourn our ceaseless dead—
But there are countless stars whose light
Is quenched within the eternal night,
Whose last word has been said.
Far more in number than the bright live orbs
Are these whose work is done:
Their ranks are ever swollen, as time absorbs
The light and heat of many an aging sun.
In this vast pathless universe I groan;
I have no hold on night, no grasp of day:
O mother, thou wast all my own!
When thou wast here, I never lost my way.
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