Each dying day, Life comes to some new end: One day, a lover lost; the next, a friend. My Dreams died once; Realities die now:— Those clustered faces and waved hands that send Godspeed and watch the curving last cars wend Away. I fling my arm across my brow— One mute mad farewell gesture!—and we tend At volleying speed around the rocky bend. The Village falls behind it. Yet a while, And it hath vanisht over voiceless years: Dissevered like an insubstantial Isle From concrete earth: a Lost Land that appears Illusive, visionary in the smile Of long-set suns, and rainbow-wreatht in tears. |