Failure At Forty

He saw there was no choice to left or right-- Time that had marked him for the least of sages Pointed the hour, and several blotted pages Stood witness to the struggle in the night. Behind him lay a happiness that might Have made him shine a figure through the ages; Before him loomed a toiling at mean wages, Alternative to sinking out of sight.

This much was sure--he never need retrace; The leagues that he had travelled were an ending. There wound no footpath to a sunlit place, Where he might nurse his dreams, with peace attending. No promised joy would quicken the day's pace, Nor write the past a blunder still worth mending.

PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN AND A LADY

To Enid Welsh