Page:Poems and ballads (IA balladspoems00swinrich).pdf/146

 Now all good that comes or goes is As the smell of last year's roses, As the radiance in our eyes Shot from summer's ere he dies.

Now the morning faintlier risen Seems no God come forth of prison, But a bird of plume‑plucked wing, Pale with thoughts of evening.

Now hath hope, outraced in running, Given the torch up of his cunning And the palm he thought to wear Even to his own strong child—despair.