Sceptic

None such come here,
Here to the cool gloom of trees
In this deep well of quiet.
Where hours
Impinge heavily on silence,
And a leaf may hang
In quivering equipoise.

But still the eternal platitudes
Of Why and Whither,
Lend Callas aloof in cold virginity.
These in plunging force
To this place where none such come.

—E.H.J..