And shouldst thou wish to know the source
From which thy tortured brethren drew
In evil days their strength of soul
To meet their doom: stretch out their necks
To each uplifted knife and axe,
In flames, on stakes to die with joy,
And with a whisper, “God is one”
To close their lips?
Then enter thou the House of God,
The House of Study, old and gray,
Throughout the sultry summer days,
Throughout the gloomy winter nights,
At morning, midday, or at eve;
Perchance there is a remnant yet,
Perchance thy eye may still behold
In some dark corner, hid from view,
A cast-off shadow of the past,
The profile of some pallid face,
Upon an ancient folio bent,
Who seeks to drown unspoken woes
In the Talmud's boundless waves.