Life and the Present; and there is no glint
Of white bones from the Past’s decaying pall;
When, lo! some subtle scent holds me in thrall;
Or an uncertain, evanescent tint,
That of a fuller summer seems to hint,
Wakes long-imprisoned yearnings that recall
Half-memories of strange unthought-of things,
That seem were once a vital part of me—
Unmeasured, mystic, vague imaginings!
And all Life’s presence and the sunshine flee,
The listless æons of my life I see,
And in my face the dead Past flaps its wings.

Similar Posts

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *