THE MESSENGER

This blind matter troubleth my wit.

Everyman

We waited for the messenger all night,

A mixed report though certainly it shocks,

When summoning what little souls we have

He drums them like dumb echoes from the rocks.

What tidings from the visible horizon?

What signs before the sunrise is outspent?

Fire, earth, and waves that ride the air —

The hurl and plummet of their last ascent.

The arc of noon commemorates no triumph.

Shadows shorten, stand, and start to yield.

A cry goes up, “The truth! We want the truth!”

But nothing more than silence is revealed.

What tidings from the visible horizon?

What signs before the sunlight is outspent?

Fire, earth, and waves that ride the air —

The hurl and plummet of their last ascent.

Above the ocean’s face the sun expands

And overflows us like the tears of Christ,

And all await the word, the final word,

To know if this much suffering has sufficed.

What tidings from the visible horizon?

What signs before the sunset is outspent?

Fire, earth, and waves that ride the air —

The hurl and plummet of their last ascent.

— This poem appears in the February 23, 2015, print edition of National Review.