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Over the rest!

[Stopping suddenly in the middle of the room.

Where is he,—my young son,

My beautiful Giovanni? You stand round,

Wise with the Church’s wisdom, but where is he?

He may be living, tortured, gagged.... He is not!

No, there is come a change in me; I know

He is not breathing with me any more,

And yet I cannot bid you pray for him;

I do not count him dead. He is but lost,

And lost so deep I do not think a creature,

Nor even his Creator knows the place

That he has wandered to. The lost must wander,

They have no goal, not even hell, no rest.

They have their freedom as the unbaptized

To rove in horror where none plucks the sleeve

Or questions them or bids good-day.

They wander on till they are flitting ghosts,

Till they are elemental and dissolved,

And when they would entreat us, they must rail

In the howling wind about our chimney-stacks.

So I encounter my Giovanni—so!

So I was tutored of the storm last night.

He is not breathing with us any more!