POETRY ;
CANYON
THERE was a time
When, though my life already ran Lower than the common, pleasant haunts of man, I marked it little. For then I still could climb (Though with an effort) to the daisied green, And laugh in the sun With other youths and maids, till day was done And I must drop again from that bright scene To my sunken bed.
The climb grew harder. Above my head Steep, lengthening walls converged and prisoned me.
Yet still I could look up and see The waving treetops and blue hills ; And smiling faces would look down To tell me that the daffodils Were come, or the swallows flown ; Or, later still, to signal friendly greeting, That was half like meeting.
But oh, How long ago Is even that : for now Few venture to the brink (And those few shuddering) To note for a moment bow No stone hurled down can bring An answering sound from sick depths dark as ink .
Those depths where my life goes Strait, silent, sunless to its close.
V. II. FRIEDLAENDER.
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