The Agnostic

The tired agnostic longs for prayer
More than the blessed can ever do:
Between the chinks in his despair,
From out his forest he peeps through
Upon a clearing sunned so bright
He cups his eyeballs from its light.

He for himself who would decide
What thing is black, what thing is white,
Whirls with the whirling spectrum wide,
Runs with the running spectrum through
Red, orange, yellow, green and blue
And purple,—turns and stays his stride
Abruptly, reaching left and right
To catch all colours into light—
But light evades him: still he stands
With rainbows streaming through his hands.

He knows how half his hours are spent
In blue or purple discontent,
In red or yellow hate or fright,
And fresh young green whereon a blight
Sits down in orange overnight.

Yet worships still the ardent sod
For every ripped and ribboned hue,
For warmth of sun and breath of air,
And beauty met with everywhere;
Not knowing why, not knowing who
Pumps in his breath and sucks it out,
Nor unto whom his praise is due.

Yet naught or nobody obeys
But his own heart, which bids him, “Praise!”
This, knowing that doubled were his days
Could he but rid his mind of doubt—
Yet will not rid him, in such ways
Of awful dalliance with despair—
And, though denying, not betrays.