The Poetry Corner


By Thomas Runciman

Despairless! Hopeless! Quietly I wait On these unpeopled tracks the happy close Of Day, whose advent rang with noise elate, Whose later stage was quick with mirthful shows And clasping loves, with hate and hearty blows, And dreams of coming gifts withheld by Fate From morrow unto morrow, till her great Dread eyes 'gan tell of other gifts than those, And her advancing wings gloomed like a pall; Her speech foretelling joy became a dirge As piteous as pitiless; and all My company had passed beyond the verge And lost me ere Fate raised her blinding wings.... Hark! through the dusk a bird "at heaven's gate sings."