ἈΓΝΩΣΤΩι ΘΕΩι
Long have I framed weak phantasies of Thee,O Willer masked and dumb!Who makest Life become,—As though by labouring all-unknowingly,Like one whom reveries numb.
How much of consciousness informs Thy willThy biddings, as if blind,Of death-inducing kind,Nought shows to us ephemeral ones who fillBut moments in Thy mind.
Perhaps Thy ancient rote-restricted waysThy ripening rule transcends;That listless effort tendsTo grow percipient with advance of days,And with percipience mends.
For, in unwonted purlieus, far and nigh,At whiles or short or long,May be discerned a wrongDying as of self-slaughter; whereat IWould raise my voice in song.
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