The Fortnightly Review, Volume 11 Chapman and Hall (publisher) 1 In this electronic edition, we have omitted the pages of all issues that do not contain material by or related to DGR. Unpaginated front and back matter from these issues has also been omitted. The structure of this electronic document allows for the future addition of the omitted material. The Fortnightly Review Chapman and Hall Virtue and Co. London 1872 January - 1872 June 11 (new series) ap4.f7 Commentary
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<hi rend="c">THE CLOUD CONFINES.</hi> The day is dark and the night To him that would search their heart; No lips of cloud that will part, Nor morning song in the light: Only, gazing alone, To him wild shadows are shown, Deep under deep unknown And height above unknown height. Still we say as we go,— “Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day.” The Past is over and fled; Named new, we name it the old; Thereof some tale hath been told, But no word comes from the dead; Whether at all they be, Or whether as bond or free, Or whether they too were we, Or by what spell they have sped. Still we say as we go,— “Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day.” What of the heart of hate That beats in thy breast, O Time?— Red strife from the furthest prime, And anguish of fierce debate; War that shatters her slain, And peace that grinds them as grain, And eyes fixed ever in vain On the pitiless eyes of Fate. Still we say as we go,— “Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day.” What of the heart of love That bleeds in thy breast, O Man?— Thy kisses snatched 'neath the ban Of fangs that mock them above; Thy bells prolonged unto knells, Thy hope that a breath dispels, Thy bitter forlorn farewells And the empty echoes thereof? Still we say as we go,— “Strange to think by the way, Whatever there is to know, That shall we know one day.” The sky leans dumb on the sea, Aweary with all its wings; And oh! the song the sea sings Is dark everlastingly. Our past is clean forgot, Our present is and is not, Our future's a sealed seedplot, And what betwixt them are we? What word's to say as we go? What thought's to think by the way? What truth may there be to know, And shall we know it one day? Dante Gabriel Rossetti.