Page:Barham Beach - a poem of regeneration.djvu/31

On a little child
Who gainst self a mimic war was waging
From the forts and castles he had piled,
Bitterly she smiled, ironic musing
How herself had planned
Citadels of sand,
Gloried in their snowy height, refusing
Credence of the precipice they spanned,
Ah, she saw too surely now how fleeting,
Insubstantial, vain,
Frostwork on the pane,
All her joy had been, mere toys, mere cheating,
False mirage of vapid heart and brain,
Life, the fairy, feigned to love, and gave her
Treasures manifold,
Gifts of seeming gold,
Now she saw how brittle was the favor,
Sad sere leaves were all she had to hold.
Presently the boy, of pastime tiring,
And of war s mishap,
Crept into her lap,
Languidly she hushed the child, desiring
Not to rend the silence silken wrap;
Yet she sang at last it was her duty
All she lived for now
Just the learning how
Shallops sail when fathoms deep is Beauty,
Pleasure s lying slaughtered in the prow,-
Slow she sang a song of April s weaving,
Sang it softly o er
Since its burden bore
Somewhat of her anguish in perceiving
June was gliding onward as of yore.