 |
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
|
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
|
|
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
 | The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill |  |
And so we learn our world, finding how time
Is an illusion—the perspective all
But a mere trick of shadow, which can make
That misty peak seem far beyond the hill
In the foreground—touch it, and you see
'T is all one whole: The Greek stands at our side,
Toga and sandals shielding the same flesh
That coat and shoes do now, the same hot brain
Throbbing beneath the helmet as the hat.
As one who hums a tune about his work,
And hears a friend's voice from another room
Strike in an alto, so we hear afar
The sound of voices all along the past
Chording with ours. 'T was only yesterday
That Plato stood and talked with Socrates;
'T was last night Paul was here, and on the desk
He left his letters, which the air has turned
From parchment into paper for our use.
In the next room they wait; 't is but a step
Over the threshold to them there, yet since
The shadow of the tree of life lies dark
Across the doorway, like a faltering child
We dread the passage through the cold dark hall,
To where the Father calls, and they have gone.
Is an illusion—the perspective all
But a mere trick of shadow, which can make
That misty peak seem far beyond the hill
In the foreground—touch it, and you see
'T is all one whole: The Greek stands at our side,
Toga and sandals shielding the same flesh
That coat and shoes do now, the same hot brain
Throbbing beneath the helmet as the hat.
As one who hums a tune about his work,
And hears a friend's voice from another room
Strike in an alto, so we hear afar
The sound of voices all along the past
Chording with ours. 'T was only yesterday
That Plato stood and talked with Socrates;
'T was last night Paul was here, and on the desk
He left his letters, which the air has turned
From parchment into paper for our use.
In the next room they wait; 't is but a step
Over the threshold to them there, yet since
The shadow of the tree of life lies dark
Across the doorway, like a faltering child
60
To where the Father calls, and they have gone.
| The poetical works of Edward Rowland Sill | |