Page:Anthology of Magazine Verse (1921).djvu/149

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MANY ARE CALLED
The Lord Apollo, who has never died,Still holds alone his immemorial reign,Supreme in an impregnable domainThat with his magic he has fortified;And though melodious multitudes have triedIn ecstacy, in anguish, and in vain,With invocation sacred and profaneTo lure him, even the loudest are outside.
Only at unconjectured intervals,By will of Him on whom no man may gaze,By word of Him whose law no man has read,A questing light may rift the sullen walls,To cling where mostly its infrequent raysFall golden on the patience of the dead.
The New RepublicEdwin Arlington Robinson


THE LONG RACE
Up the old hill to the old house again,When fifty years ago the friend was youngWho should be waiting somewhere there amongOld things that least remembered most remain,He toiled on with a pleasure that was painTo think how soon asunder would be flungThe curtain half a century had hungBetween the two ambitions they had slain.
They dredged an hour for words, and then were done."Good-bye! . . . . You have the same old weather vane—A little horse that's always on the run."And all the way down back to the next train,Down the old hill to the old road again,It seemed as if the little horse had won.The New RepublicEdwin Arlington Robinson

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