Page:Three Plays Sunderland Hills.pdf/175

Rh

He is a strange child, for he will not play With other urchins, racing, or at ball. His pencil never absent from his hand As tho' he fear'd that night would fall too soon, He'll watch the fountains all an Autumn day, Mount and descend against the sky serene, Until the gloaming deepen thro' the glade.

His hand shall falter and his purpose fail Attainment, as the sky-aspiring jets Of frustrate fountains falling back in spray Sink sighing to their marble bason's pen, Missing the goal they strove for, with a sob To find the stars so unattainable. Still seeking very Beauty, as a moth Flitting across a hall of festal lights May feverishly beat a little hour