English poem
Vi
by Archibald Allan Bowman (1883–1936)
Waiting! A soldier’s sacrament of strain, The eager cup of poising destiny, That may not pass from him till it is dry, And Death with peace, or Life unveils with pain. Full many in this demented play must drain That cup but once. Full many a soul must try Its sharpness, till numbed sense hath lost the lie Of a life’s landscape, smitten from the brain. Then in a falling twilight of the mind Their way into that temple oft they grope, Where from the true, strong human hand doth slip Life’s vesture of live colours, meaning, hope, Purpose and fear, leaving dumb wont behind, While the word “Fate” drops dreaming from the lip.
RASTATT, 29th April