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John Eugene Crombie
My dream-path led through the Furnace, and Pain, and Fire—
I could not stay nor turn from the road in flight—
But I knew it would lead me back past the Hill of Desire
To the warm hearth-stones in the City of Quiet Delight.
The Pedlar
THERE'S a broken, lame old pedlar a-limping down the street,
Cold sorrow at his heart, a hard road beneath his feet,
Lifeless walls around him and a leaden sky above
As he searches through the city for the face of his lost Love.
Red and blue and golden leaps the flame of his desire;
Red, for glowing embers of a vagabond's night fire,
Blue, to seek the deep unf athomed glory of the sea,
And gold for Northern sunsets, wealth of beggars such as he.
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