The Art of Letters

by Robert Lynd

Dark is the outer air,

Coldly the night draughts blow,

Mutely we stare, and stare,

At the frenzied Show.

Yet Heaven hath its quiet shroud

Of deep, immutable blue—

We cry, “The end!” We are bowed

By the dread, “’Tis true!”

While the Shape who hoofs applause

Behind our deafened ear,