POETRY.
THE ETERNAL FIRE.
HAVE pity now for Spring,
For tossing buds and lusty shoots of green, That gather glory in a windy day, And then are swept away Out of men's eyes, each crumpled, withered thing, Somewhere into the dark, forgot, unseen.
Spring, and the youth of man, Fire in the blood, the brave, the ardent-eyed Adventurous youth, storming the infinite, Mastering height on height;
Yet Time shall end the tale that Time began, Write " Finis," turn the page upon their pride.
They pass and leave no trace, This flower, this child; they pass, but do not die.
The fiery legend lives and glows again In the white souls of men, And beauty, ravished out of time and space, Still in the soul puts on eternity.
Dear heart, this love we light Of gusty flames and torches of desire Fails not with failing eyes, with these white limbs; When Age the kill-joy dims The flaring lamps that make a feast of night, Our love shall live, shall burn, shall be a fire.
About us as We stand, Our candles all blown out, our little store Of joys and wonders shrivelled on the wind, Shall break the gloom behind
The drooping veils, and light us hand in hand
Along the last dark lonely corridor.
P. If. B. LYON.
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