And, the last day being
come, Man stood alone
Ere sunrise on the
world’s dismantled verge,
Awaiting how from
everywhere should urge
The Coming of the Lord.
And, behold, none
Did come,—but
indistinct from every realm
Of earth and air and
water, growing more
And louder, shriller,
heavier, a roar
Up the dun atmosphere
did overwhelm
His ears; and as he
looked affrighted round
Every manner of beast
innumerable
All thro’ the shadows
crying grew, until
The wailing was like
grass upon the ground.
Asudden then within his
human side
Their anguish, since
the goad he wielded first,
And, since he gave them
not to drink, their thirst,
Darted compressed and
vital.—As he died,
Low in the East now
lighting gorgeously
He saw the last
sea-serpent iris-mailed
Which, with a spear
transfixèd, yet availed
To pluck the sun down
into the dead sea.
Trumbull Stickney
(Picture: Sunset, Felix Vallotton)
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