Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/103
This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.
WAITING BY THE GATE.
97
I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more,
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er.
And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er.
Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now,
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow;
His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought;
He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.
There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow;
His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought;
He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.
In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hour
Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power.
I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day,
And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.
Of human strength and action, man's courage and his power.
I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day,
And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.