REQUIESCAT

For thee, the veil of the temple is rent

And the holy of holies laid bare...

Hath mystery thy being spent

With tragic muteness eloquent;

Or with the horror living there

        Is thy dead spirit blent?

Whate'er contains now thy vision's scope,

Howe'er it be, thou canst not be mad

At shadows dread for which we grope,

And at thy heart together did fade

The pleasure that doth make us sad

        And the pain that makes us hope.