 | English Roses |  |
LOOKING BACK.
When I look back upon my life
It seems a little thing,
Less than the moment's dust and strife
Stirred by an insect's wing—
A cloud of foolish efforts rife
With empty murmuring;
Confusion dull of babbling sound
Which went the same unceasing round,
Each idle hour and day;
The bubble of a play
In one familiar fated bound,
Which fooled its wealth away.
It seems a little thing,
Less than the moment's dust and strife
Stirred by an insect's wing—
A cloud of foolish efforts rife
With empty murmuring;
Confusion dull of babbling sound
Which went the same unceasing round,
Each idle hour and day;
The bubble of a play
In one familiar fated bound,
Which fooled its wealth away.
And as I pause beside the edge
Where all at length must stand,
The earth seems just a crumbling ledge
Outside the better land,
It cannot give the soul a pledge
More solid than the sand.
The love, for which I fiercely fought,
So hardly won with tears, was nought—
A bauble or distress,
And cold the dear caress;
Hope was a wrecker's light, and thought
The curse of consciousness.
Where all at length must stand,
480
Outside the better land,
It cannot give the soul a pledge
More solid than the sand.
The love, for which I fiercely fought,
So hardly won with tears, was nought—
A bauble or distress,
And cold the dear caress;
Hope was a wrecker's light, and thought
The curse of consciousness.
| English Roses | |