Better far this nameless void that stops my
life than a sea of sorrow for you.
Idle words; he might have borne his burden more bravely
than we,--aye, and found it lighter too, some day; for surely,
surely this is not the end. Surely there shall yet dawn some
mighty morning to lift the Veil and set the prisoned free. Not
for me,--I shall die in my bonds,--but for fresh young souls
who have not known the night and waken to the morning; a
morning when men ask of the workman, not "Is he white?"
but "Can he work?" When men ask artists, not "Are they
black?" but "Do they know?" Some morning this may be,
long, long years to come. But now there wails, on that dark
shore within the Veil, the same deep voice, THOU SHALT FOREGO!
And all have I foregone at that command, and with small
complaint,--all save that fair young form that lies so coldly
wed with death in the nest I had builded.
If one must have gone, why not I? Why may I not rest me
from this restlessness and sleep from this wide waking? Was
not the world's alembic, Time, in his young hands, and is not
my time waning? Are there so many workers in the vineyard
that the fair promise of this little body could lightly be tossed
away? The wretched of my race that line the alleys of the
nation sit fatherless and unmothered; but Love sat beside
his cradle, and in his ear Wisdom waited to speak.
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