Poems (Kennedy)/Out of The Past
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OUT OF THE PAST
WHEN, wrapped in twilight folds, you put away
Within Time's darkened niche the worn-out day,
Say not that it is dead.
It may seem cold and still and very white—
A pallor on the edge of endless night,
A blur of nothingness,
A silence deep and dread.
Within Time's darkened niche the worn-out day,
Say not that it is dead.
It may seem cold and still and very white—
A pallor on the edge of endless night,
A blur of nothingness,
A silence deep and dread.
And yet if in that day you lived a lie,
Or shamed a faith, or put a suppliant by,
Or wronged a child of God,
From out the shrouding shadows grim and black
Of some long after-year, it will reach back
Its phantom hands of pain
And smite you with its rod.
Or shamed a faith, or put a suppliant by,
Or wronged a child of God,
From out the shrouding shadows grim and black
Of some long after-year, it will reach back
Its phantom hands of pain
And smite you with its rod.