O, empty page! How in thee is written volumes!
O, terrible silence! Thou bespeak’st much!
Even th’unwitted speech of fools
Does comfort and succour th’ailing and lonely soul.
Thou mockest life thou terrible void,
Pit of the dead and friend of the melancholy;
Thou tellest much against men, and sayest
Little of his joy.
Verily, no news is bad news
For the very hearing of a human voice
May be pleasing to the ear,
And in the knowing of truth there is, oftentimes,
Greater comfort to be found than in ignorance.
For aye, have we not found truth to be a pain
Better recieved than confusion?
For wise men seek truth, but fools and the disturbed
Are full of confusions and perplexities.
Wicked, wicked emptiness! That thou shouldst be
Filled even to the tiniest part of nothing, ‘twould
Grant me gladness. But nay, that pleasure thou dost deny,
Not tainting thyself with any manner of goodness but
Instead cloaking thyself most completely in evil mystery.
Allay my fears, O darkness!
Suffer not the ignorant, but
Show thyself, damned mystery! For without and within,
I suffer thy torments nightly, and thou do’est much to
Lessen th’measure of a man.
Assailant unseen, thou backstabber, I would thee fight
Face to face, not as one who stalks in the night,
But in the terrible honor of day, where each
Nook and cranny of thine figure most horrid may be seen.
Come, O truth! Come, O words!
Join in comely un’son ‘gainst this force most terrible
That light may be seen to conquer darkness.
Come, O minions of peace, justice and wisdom,
And let not Mystery at thy reputes tear!
Come, friends, for the foe is draw near,
And let not wicked Obscurity the victor be.