Perhaps in our appeal for ruth my wording stumbled on the truth,
"One God that went by many names," or else I knew Him in my youth,
Or else that Sufi haunted me with something that I could not see,
Something that only had not been because we would not let it be.
And when the foe marched in, I own that I was thinking of the Rhone
Long, long ago, and wondering—a child once more—if it had grown.
Yet there remained the sharpest cup to drain: the moan of us went up,
When from the topmost dome was hurled the Sign that should have ruled the world.
Down, down it rumbled with our grand designs. All we had built or planned,
Toiled, bled for, crumbled at a touch, was ruined like a house of sand.