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W. C SCULLY.
107
SONNET.
I leant my breast against the golden gate
That bars the body from the land of dreams,
But lets the soul to roam in lawns where wait
Or wander down the banks of shining streams
The dead and living, holding strange debate
Of things that yet should happen 'neath the beams
Of suns as yet unrisen, whilst listless Fate
Paused, and the stars unyoked their tired teams.
And as my hand the latch sought, for I fain
Had followed one who wore a white rose-wreath,
Sleep touched mine eyes with darkness, and the pain
Of longing ceased; and when I next drew breath
I heard a voice low whisper, "It is vain
To enter here—thou first must drink of death!"
W. C. Scully.
