Poems (Sill)/The Book of Hour
S one who reads a tale writ in a tongue He only partly knows,—runs over it And follows but the story, losing witAnd charm, and half the subtle links amongThe haps and harms that the book's folk beset,— So do we with our life. Night comes, and morn: I know that one has died and one is born;That this by love and that by hate is met.But all the grace and glory of it fail To touch me, and the meanings they enfold. The Spirit of the World hath told the tale, And tells it: and 't is very wise and old.But o'er the page there is a mist and veil: I do not know the tongue in which 't is told.
THE BOOK OF HOURS.
S one who reads a tale writ in a tongue He only partly knows,—runs over it And follows but the story, losing witAnd charm, and half the subtle links amongThe haps and harms that the book's folk beset,— So do we with our life. Night comes, and morn: I know that one has died and one is born;That this by love and that by hate is met.But all the grace and glory of it fail To touch me, and the meanings they enfold. The Spirit of the World hath told the tale, And tells it: and 't is very wise and old.But o'er the page there is a mist and veil: I do not know the tongue in which 't is told.