Menken, Adah Isaacs
O lonely watchers for the Light! how long must I grope
with my dead eyes in the sand?
Only the red fire of Genius, that narrows up life's
chances to the black path that crawls on to the dizzy
The wailing music that spreads its pinions to the
tremble of the wind, has crumbled of to silence.
From the steep ideal the quivering soul falls in its
lonely sorrow like an unmated star horn the blue heights
of Heaven into the dark sea.
O Genius! is this thy promise?
O Bards! is this all?