Page:Poems·from·the·Port·Hills-Blanche·Edith·Baughan-1923.pdf/7

 Down on the rock he sank, his hand in a cushion of shamrock: Its bright little gold-cups gleam’d, the tussock glisten’d with newness, Ruddily spir’d the sorrel, and rosily spread the crane’s-bill— Just as in all past springs! when, from the self-same vantage Over the plain and the mountains, the sea and the city, daily, A daring aeronaut, he had launch’d forth flying ambitions, That over the snows had soar’d, and roam’d more wide than the ocean, For gallant the dreamer had been, and the dream-ships gallant and good. Lost, lost were they all now! sunken in glamorous evil Under the veil of yon City, and he, crouch’d here in his old haunt, Wingless and worse! companion’d by memories now, not dreams. O, unescapable gall! how he remember’d....remember’d.... That one bright actual journey, down to the waiting City, Out to the welcoming world! Gaiety, glitter, adventure, Merry young mates at last, and the birthright of pleasure and power Ready at hand, to be tasted.... The money, borrow’d....not stolen, Ah, not stolen!....Then...then...the incredible, frightful