48
POEMS.
The years ran fast. The seekers went
All up, all down the golden lands:
The streams grew pale; the hills were spent;
Slow ran the golden sands.
All up, all down the golden lands:
The streams grew pale; the hills were spent;
Slow ran the golden sands.
And men were beggars in a day,
For swift to come was swift to go;
What chance had got, chance flung away
On one more chance's throw.
For swift to come was swift to go;
What chance had got, chance flung away
On one more chance's throw.
And bleached and seamed and riven plains,
And tossed and tortured rocks like ghosts,
And blackened lines and charred remains,
And crumbling chimney-posts,
And tossed and tortured rocks like ghosts,
And blackened lines and charred remains,
And crumbling chimney-posts,
For leagues their ghastly records spread
Of youth, and years, and fortunes gone,
Like graveyards whose sad living dead
Had hopeless journeyed on.
······
The years had counted up to ten:
One night, as it grew chill and late,
The husbandman marked beggar-men
Who leaned upon his gate.
Of youth, and years, and fortunes gone,
Like graveyards whose sad living dead
Had hopeless journeyed on.
······
The years had counted up to ten:
One night, as it grew chill and late,
The husbandman marked beggar-men
Who leaned upon his gate.
"Ho here! good men," he eager cried,
Before the wayfarers could speak;
"This is my vineyard. Far and wide,
For laborers I seek.
Before the wayfarers could speak;
"This is my vineyard. Far and wide,
For laborers I seek.
"This year has doubled on last year;
The fruit breaks down my vines and trees;
Tarry and help, till wine runs clear,
And ask what price you please."
The fruit breaks down my vines and trees;
Tarry and help, till wine runs clear,
And ask what price you please."
