De Senectute (verse)
Layne, N. M.
Senectute It is but of miles a twain Till the earth takes heart again, Seaward strives and thrusts amain With a skyey promontory Round whose base the wasted wrack Boils, recoils with pallid...
...But the feet go gladly down Bloomless meadows bare and brown There beneath the moonless roof Of the vapors starlight-proof, Till at last the silence lies Soft as sleep on weary eyes...
...Senectute It is but of miles a twain Till the earth takes heart again, Seaward strives and thrusts amain With a skyey promontory Round whose base the wasted wrack Boils, recoils with pallid track Stained with dawn and sunset glory ; Where the winds make holiday, Gather from the ocean plain To a titan roundelay...
...It is but of miles a twain From my hearth to yonder height, But I shall not come again When the tides of day and night Beat upon the western gate, Nor to track the starry spate, Nor at breast of morning bright Stain my lips with light of sun...
...It is but of years a twain And I shall not come again...
...On the marsh-lands brooding, dim, Cloudy mists of evening swim, Sloping lands that fall alway League on league from light of day...
...It is but of miles a twain Yet I shall not go again...
...What is ended, what undone Come no more like restless ghost, Urge no more with empty boast Heights unconquered, life begun...
...N. M. Layne...
Vol. 3 • March 1926 • No. 17
