Page:Captain Craig; a book of poems.djvu/127

Rh But the blank taste of time. There were no dreams, No phantoms in her future any more: One clinching revelation of what was, One by-flash of irrevocable chance, Had acridly but honestly foretold The mystical fulfillment of a life That might have once. . . But that was all gone by: There was no need of reaching back for that: The triumph was not hers: there was no love Save borrowed love: there was no might have been.

But there was yet Young George—and he had gone Conveniently to sleep, like a good boy; And there was yet Sylvester with his drum, And there was frowzle-headed little Jane; And there was Jane the sister, and the mother,— Her sister, and the mother of them all. They were not hers, not even one of them: She was not born to be so much as that, For she was born to be Aunt Imogen. Now she could see the truth and look at it; Now she could make stars out where once had palled