What was there in that silence that could scare
Thy eagle spirit, Pascal, strong to scale
The mount of God, to heights within the vail,
Even on the worn wings of its own despair?
I rather — if a moment I may dare
Place thought of mine, all light and bubble-frail,
By thought of thine — I rather grow more pale
Through stress of trouble and consuming care,
When listening to man's Babel voices rise.
Or far or near, from the abyss of time,
Where every age, and race, and creed, and clime.
Is many-mouthed and voluble, and cries
Discord and doubt forever, with the roar
As of a starless sea that has no shore.