A SYMBOL. 



BY IRWIN RUSSELL.* 



Over the meadow there stretched a lane, 

 Parting- the meadow in segments twain; 

 And through the meadow and over the sod 

 Where countless feet had before him trod — 

 With a wall forever on either hand 

 Barring the lane from the meadow-land, 

 There walked a man with a weary face. 

 Treading the lane at a steadfast pace. 



On before him, until the eye 



To gauge the distance could no more try, 



To where the meadow embraced the sky, 



The lane still stretched, and the walls still barred 



The dusty lane from the meadow sward. 



He paid no heed to the joyous calls 



That came from men who had leaped the walls — 



Who paused a moment in song or jest. 



To hail him " Brother, come here and rest !" 



For the Sun was marching toward the West, 



And the man had many a mile to go. 



And time is swift and toil is slow. 



The grassy meadows were green and fair 

 Bestudded with many a blossom rare. 

 And the lane was dusty, and dry, and bare; 

 But even there, in a tiny shade 

 A jutting stone in the wall had made, 

 A tuft of clover had lately sprung — 

 It had not bloomed for it yet was young — 

 The spot of green caught the traveler's eye. 

 And he plucked a sprig, as he passed by; 

 And then, as he held it, there came a thought 

 In his musing mind, with a meaning fraught 

 With other meanings. 



" Ah, look ! " said he, "• 

 " The spray is one — and its leaves are three, 

 A symbol of man, it seems to me. 

 As he was, as he is, and as he will be ! 

 One of the leaves points back, the way 

 That I have wearily walked to day; 

 One points forward as if to show 

 The long, hard journey I've yet to go; 

 And the third one points to the ground below. 

 Time is one, and Time is three : 

 And the sign of Time, in its Trinity — 

 Past, Present, Future, together bound 

 In the simplest grass of the field is found ! 

 The lane of life is a dreary lane 

 Whose course is over a flowery plain. 

 Who leaps the walls to enjoy the flowers 

 Forever loses the wasted hours. 

 The lane is long, and the lane is bare, 

 'Tis tiresome ever to journey there; 

 But on forever the soul must wend — 

 And who can tell where the lane will end?" 



The thought was given. Its mission done. 

 The grass was cast to the dust and sun; 

 And the sun shone on it, and saw it die 

 With all three leaves turned toward the sky. 



* Died in 1878. The Century Co. published a small volume of his pojms a few years ag-o. This poem has 

 never before been printed. — Ed. 



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