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 | Poems and dramas of George Cabot Lodge |  |
82
IX
PASSING DAYS
They walk across my life with great, grave eyesThat greet my questioning hands with silent scorn
And blossoms break upon their crowns of thorn,
While garlands wither that their children prize.
I kiss their lips and grow a little wise,
A little patient, while my strength is worn
Beneath the spur of each succeeding morn
That dowers its evening with a fresh surmise.
Their message dies with them, an empty word;
But memory garners, in a wild regret,
Their silent beauty that the heart preferred.
And in the fire of hopeless love they seem
So real with sorrow, that I half forget
My soul shall wake and find the days a dream.
| Poems and dramas of George Cabot Lodge | |