54
MORNING.
Memory holds the past, and shrouding her face in darkness,
Sits by its silent doors and waits the coming of evening,
Then on its golden hinge turning the shadowy portal
Bears to the waiting heart the wealth of its buried treasure;
But clasping her sister's hand, the angel who guards the future
Hope, with her shining hair-walks through the rose-bright hours,
Cleaving the morning air; then lifting her radiant pinions,
Rises above the clouds, and pierces the blue beyond them.
Sits by its silent doors and waits the coming of evening,
Then on its golden hinge turning the shadowy portal
Bears to the waiting heart the wealth of its buried treasure;
But clasping her sister's hand, the angel who guards the future
Hope, with her shining hair-walks through the rose-bright hours,
Cleaving the morning air; then lifting her radiant pinions,
Rises above the clouds, and pierces the blue beyond them.
Thus when the sunset sleeps on the old man's silver tresses,
Shading his weary eyes, he turns where Memory waits him,
Holding again the crown he won in the days departed.
But in the time when youth stands on the threshold of manhood,
Daring with eagle glance the blaze of its morning sunshine,
Shading his weary eyes, he turns where Memory waits him,
Holding again the crown he won in the days departed.
But in the time when youth stands on the threshold of manhood,
Daring with eagle glance the blaze of its morning sunshine,
