Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, IMMORTALITY, by M. EDWARD ROSENZWEIG


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

IMMORTALITY, by                    
First Line: Soft falls the snow, -like a silent veil
Last Line: And my footprints are lost, as soft falls the snow.
Subject(s): Death; Graves; Heaven; Memory; Dead, The; Tombs; Tombstones; Paradise


SOFT falls the snow,—like a silent veil
Upon the face of darkness, pale;
Silent, soft,—adding silence more intense,
Filling the air with its whiteness,—dense
Falls the snow, like a carpet white
The earth o'erspreads itself, and night
Its darkness loses, gathering light
From this below,—for oft 'tis bright
The level plain, and not the height,—
As when the sun, low-sinking, red,
Dips slowly 'neath the sea its head.
Soft falls the snow,—and yet, 'twould seem,
Creations of a vision,—dream.
All this around me,—white and pure,
Soft the snow falls, serene, secure,
So silent,—calm, so lightly dresst
With thoughts of peace,—of love, and rest.

And here I stand before the gate
Of iron bars,—against the grate
My face hard pressed,—my fingers tight,
Soft falls the snow,—but now its light
I cannot see,—I cannot feel,
The silence speaks, my senses steal
Away from me,—no doubts, no fear,
No haunting shadows gathering near;
There is no trembling of the hand—
This but I know,—that here I stand
Before this tomb, the house of dead,
Where lies the corpse whence life has fled.

It is not fear that makes me stand
So limp, so lifeless,—nor the hand
To shake,—to shake,—the hair to rise,—
It is not fear,—and yet there cries
Within my soul that here I see
Life's birth,—Life's death,—Life's mystery.

The light behind,—the tomb before,
Dumb—silent, dark and nothing more,—
A silence of a substance,—dense,
Oppressing,—mute,—so silent,—tense
As if a mass it were of lead,
And nothing more,—no sound,—instead—
Soft falls the snow.
Corporeal silence like a voice,
My ears sound-filled, I have no choice
But stay,—but stay, with gazing eye,
Where silent dead in slumber lie;
So near—so far,—for here in me
Is Life,—and there,—Eternity.

Now calm, as of the tomb a part
I stand, with normal-beating heart;
If fear there was, I know it not,
'Tis gone if 'twere,—around this spot
There circles mystery,—eons, realms,
And infinite thought the mind o'erwhelms,
Too vast to think on,—O, too deep,
As looking down the mountain steep,
We cautious bend, and look; but fail,
If steep the mount,—to see the vale;
Or when the ear its shell-cup round
Is limit-filled with vibrant sound,
Tho rumbling thunder add its din,
No more of sound can enter in.

With advancing stride on the road of time,
With a hand on the pulse of every clime,
With a chart of the land,—the sea,—the sky,
Of the depths of the earth,—the bodies on high,—
Marking the course of the rising sun,
Of the shifting stars,—when the day is done;
The substance of air, the measure of night,
The causes of darkness, the sources of light,
The heat of the torrids,—the cold of the zones,
Vibration of sound, and the volume of tones,
The products of earth, and the wealth of the sea,
The beasts of the forest,—the sap of the tree,
The measure of atoms,—the life of the flower,
The lightning, the cloudburst, the rainbow, the shower,
All this,—aye,—and more, long unknown, unrevealed,
Showed itself unto Science,—in truth, unconcealed;
And yet,—tho unfolding as years onward roll,
Old Science is baffled to follow the soul.

Speak, O ye Dead!—is there slumber and rest
Where you lie stiff and cold with a stone on your breast;
With rough marble so cold 'neath your head and your feet,
Are there dreams in your sleep,—is your calm slumber sweet?
Does your spirit of Life still live on,—Or has Death
Taken also the mind and the soul with your breath?
O, mouths that are silent,—your mysteries give!
Is there life, new in death,—is it death here to live?
Does your soul have a mission unshaken and free?
Is there peace in your sphere, for the souls there like thee?
Is there splendor of Heaven,—Hot fire of Hell,
Or a Paradise fair in the world where you dwell?
Is there God in His Kingdom with life-giving breath?
O, lips that are still,—Is there life after death?

Soft falls the snow,—now the breeze springs high,
And thick falls the white from the leaden sky,
Loud sounds the wind thro the branches bare,
A phantom of white is the whirling air,
Like a spirit disturbed,—like a ghost that is lost,
In the arms of an angry tempest tosst,
And loud sounds a voice thru the storm in my ear,
'Tis my own,—'tis the voice of my thought that I hear:

"O, ye who doubt,—Ye misbelieving throng,
Uncertain thinking still of God's identity,
Awake!—Behold! within your hearts alone
The God of Love shall dwell,—for God is Love;
Look to your hearts,—throw ope' the portals wide,
Let enter God,—the God of Love within,
For He is all for one,—a perfect Unity,
Whose only law,—"Thy neighbor as thyself."
Ye look above,—beyond,—before,
Thro ages blindly groping,—seeking,
While here upon your threshold standing,
Knocks the All-God at your door.
O'er every castle, palace, home and hamlet,—
In humble cottage, poorest, darkest den,
The God of Love appears and longs to linger,
Oh, blesst is he who bids Him enter in.
Dispel the gloom—the haze,—the doubting,
Drink deep within your soul His warmth,
Make Charity your own, His firm disciple,
And live on earth a Heaven as your own;
A love for all must bring and breed forgiveness,
Forgiveness clasps and tender makes the heart.
Then in this heart,—thus made the fairest temple,
Shall dwell thy God of Love,—Thine own, for all,
So shalt thou dwell on earth,—but earth a Heaven,
For Heaven is but where thy God shall be,
And living thus with Him, thou diest never,
But livest on—and through eternity;
For Love—God has no death,—He has no dying,
We leave the earth,—but thoughts of death, Away!
For if we live in hearts we leave behind us,
To live within those hearts is not to die."

Soft falls the snow,—and the night is still,
And the trees stand bare and asleep on the hill,
And I cling to the thought that the Dead are not dead,
If a memory lives on,—if a tear-drop is shed,
If somewhere, some time, in some heart comes a thrill
For the face that is gone,—and the voice that is still.

And vague floats a thought,—could they speak from the sod,
Would they tell of a Father,—a Maker,—a God?

And I turn from the tomb, with a step that is slow,
And my footprints are lost, as soft falls the snow.





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