Pause for the elements, and pause for me,
As though it were a silver brook that ran
Between a blinded day and blinded night,—
Between the dust of life and the dust of death.
Why shall I sit here? Why are colonnades
And paths and pagan statuaries more
Adroitly dear to my unseeing eyes
Than all the beaded letters of the Books
And colorings of all the bended Saints?
Because I hear the stealing feet of peace