Page:The Yellow Book - 07.djvu/31



By Rosamund Marriott Watson

o still the old house lies, so dull, so grey,
 * The dews of dawn forget to hallow it;

Here come no sweet birds singing, night or day,
 * From these bare eaves no building swallows flit.

Sunk in dim dreams it lies as in a swoon—
 * Dreams of a distant city hid from sight,

The enchanted city of the sun and moon,
 * The golden market of the world's delight.

Pale as the dead are they that dwell herein,
 * Worn with vain strife and wrung with vain regret;

Theirs but to watch the world go by to win
 * That glimmering goal their hearts remember yet.

They lean among the lilacs by the door,
 * To watch the winding road with wistful eyes,

The long, white, dusty way that nevermore
 * Shall bear them hope or wonder or surprise.

Sometimes