 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
OLD AGE.
O Death! thou holdèst that dread door ajar,Whose threshold, worn by unreturning tread,
Points but one way to Living and to Dead;
The downward way to goal so near yet far,
Which none can guess, though all aye-guessing are.
The dread Sphinx-riddle which hath swallowèd,
And aye will swallow (self-interpreted
Alone) the Guessers, who both make and mar,
And solve Death but with Life! With trembling hands,
And fixed and glassy gaze, Old Age would peer
Into the darkness, while his ebbing sands
Run from the hour-glass and disappear!
In vain ajar that door mysterious stands;
No glimpse beyond he sees, no sound doth hear.
| Stones from The Quarry | |