Page:Thirty poems (IA thirtypoems00bryarich).pdf/103

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WAITING BY THE GATE.
97
I hear the woodthrush piping one mellow descant more,And scent the flowers that blow when the heat of day is o'er.
Behold the portals open, and o'er the threshold, now,There steps a weary one with a pale and furrowed brow;His count of years is full, his allotted task is wrought;He passes to his rest from a place that needs him not.
In sadness then I ponder how quickly fleets the hourOf human strength and action, man's courage and his power.I muse while still the woodthrush sings down the golden day,And as I look and listen the sadness wears away.
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