Poems (Storrie)/The Core of Time

by Agnes Louisa Storrie

The Core of Time

My path lies through an orchard, where the sun
 Filters among the heavy-laden boughs,
I pass the ruddy fruit, and pluck not one,
 Dreaming, with deeply knitted brows
Of God knows what, some fairer, finer trees
 Guarded, perchance, by some Hesperides,
Or winnowing from the scented breeze
 Some airy harvest of ideal fruits
Growing on curious trees that never threw
 Into earth's homely breast their searching roots,
Or clean, sharp kisses of our sunshine knew.

And dreaming thus, with eyes thrown far afield
 I miss the sweets that Fate had planned fur me,
And curse the barren days that only yield
 Unto my hands their native paucity;
And that rich harvest that I did not heed,
 Whose fruits were fitted to my real need
Is vanished, and I have no garnered seed
 To face the future with, and I discern
Too late, the nice adjustment of the soul
 To its environment, and, weeping, learn
The value of each fragment to the whole;
 This is the future that we have to-day,
This is the vision beautiful that now we see,
 Each moment, when its husk is stripped away,
Reveals a hidden kernel—Opportunity.