 | Poems |  |
170
WATERSHED
Now on life's crest we breathe the temperate air;
Turn either way; the parted paths o'erlook;
Dear, we shall never bid the Sphinx despair,
Nor read in Sibyl's book.
Turn either way; the parted paths o'erlook;
Dear, we shall never bid the Sphinx despair,
Nor read in Sibyl's book.
The blue bends o'er us; good are Night and Day;
Some blissful influence from the starry Seven
Thrilled us ere youth took wing; wherefore essay
The vain assault on heaven?
Some blissful influence from the starry Seven
Thrilled us ere youth took wing; wherefore essay
The vain assault on heaven?
And what great Word Life's singing lips pronounce,
And what intends the sealing kiss of Death,
It skills us not; yet we accept, renounce,
And draw this tranquil breath.
And what intends the sealing kiss of Death,
It skills us not; yet we accept, renounce,
And draw this tranquil breath.
Enough, one thing we know, haply anon
All truths; yet no truths better or more clear
Than that your hand holds my hand; wherefore on!
The downward pathway, Dear!
All truths; yet no truths better or more clear
Than that your hand holds my hand; wherefore on!
The downward pathway, Dear!
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