POETRY
THE THRESHOLD
BRIGHT is the morning : Breezes, 0 breezes ! And passionate sunlight Embracing the garden, Forlorn dewy garden Of roses and. lettuce, Plum tree and pear.
And here in the door- way A pool of light twinkles Lucent and diligent, Veined with shadows— The warp of slim branches Of pear and of plum— That sway like harmonies Dumb, though the spirit Hears them and sings them; That sway like waters Roving in sylvan Solitude—solitude Full of desire. How sweet the vagrant Fancy, rare Fancy, Flows on this golden air ! Flows on unpassing, Urgent but never gone, Circling, returning, Vortex that marries Ambrosial spirit To diffident clay, And yields with passion To youth its vision, The arrow of fury, Promethean fire.
To Youth—the vision : To Age—the proof, When from her palaces Evening comes ; 0 calm and quiet-eyed Where is thy treasure ? Song no more sways thee Whose vision is ended, Lulled is the fancy, The bright soul sleeps.
A. E. COPPARD.
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