The Equinox (Volume I, Number IX)

148 THE EQUINOX Forgotten utterly as he. So let him lie unknown where he belongs, Ask of the murmuring sea, Or of the silent stars that roll so ceaselessly, Where he be fled,— It is enough ; one word is enough: he is dead. Rose! Ever-virgin Rose of the pulsing world, Whereover are thy petals curled,— It is for me alone to sing of thee, It is for me alone. Yea! let my songs of thy fame Be as flame, That shall enhance, maybe, The liberty Of one.— If one alone shall say : “It is not dead, the day, Not utterly dead while one man sings, Having been brushed by the morning’s wings,” It shall suffice For him ; and as for thee, Though the age be as ice, In one heart thou hast blossomed ; one was free To sing these things, These things. For ever more the light shall fade from him, His eyes shall wax more dim, His ear more dull. And so the wonderful world less beautiful