Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The IdolTudor Jenks
D
Where thronged the dusky worshipers in gratitude for good;
With humble hearts in rudest strains they praised their god benign:
Serene in measureless repose the idol gave no sign.
That there might fall upon his path some guiding heavenly ray:
“Out of thy wisdom manifold let but one word be mine!”
Serene in measureless repose the idol gave no sign.
The trembling people bowed to earth and sought the idol’s aid,
Or, frenzied, cursed its stony smile and changeless brow malign:
Serene in measureless repose the idol gave no sign.
Ye cannot see, ye must not know, yet all is for the best; vain are tears, in vain is praise, yet worship the divine!”
Serene in measureless repose the idol gave no sign.
With sobbing breath the victim fell—he could no further go.
Ah!—Would that dark libation were but of crimson wine!
Serene in measureless repose the idol gave no sign.
Amid a dwindling forest rots a crumbling image gray,
Now but a formless bulk of rock draped in a living vine.
Serene in measureless repose the idol gives no sign.