Xxxvi

More storm than calm, less gold than gray, Along the years our lives must tread, Makes sad the scenes around our way, Makes grave the heavens overhead: For on life’s storied page, behold, Are adumbrations of the dead! The neutral tint Time’s fingers lay Around a tale that’s never told.

Time writes with sunshine less than rain, With starlight less than mist, the scroll-- A thousand memories of pain To one of joy--of his own soul: The golden hues of life occur In his dim palimpsest, whose whole Death scrawls with dusty lines again, Making of all a leaden blur.