The Poetry Corner

Fate

By Bret Harte (Francis)

The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, The spray of the tempest is white in air; The winds are out with the waves at play, And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, The panther clings to the arching limb; And the lions whelps are abroad at play, And I shall not join in the chase to-day. But the ship sailed safely over the sea, And the hunters came from the chase in glee; And the town that was builded upon a rock Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock.