226 OF THE DAYS GONE BY 



The dense hard passage is blind and stifled 

 That crawls by a track none turn to climb 



To the strait waste place that the years have rifled 

 Of all but the thorns that are touched not of time. 



The thorns he spares when the rose is taken ; 

 The rocks are left when he wastes the plain ; 



The wind that wanders, the weeds wind-shaken, 

 These remain. 



Not a flower to be prest of the foot that falls not ; 

 As the heart of a dead man the seed-plots are 



dry; 

 From the thicket of thorns whence the nightingale 



calls not, 



Could she call, there were never a rose to reply. 

 Over the meadows that blossom and wither, 



Rings but the note of a sea-bird's song. 

 Only the sun and the rain come hither 

 All year long. 



The sun burns sear, and the rain dishevels 

 One gaunt bleak blossom of scentless breath. 



Only the wind here hovers and revels 



In a round where life seems barren as death. 



Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping, 

 Haply, of lovers none ever will know, 



Whose eyes went seaward a hundred sleeping 

 Years ago. 



Heart handfast in heart as they stood, " Look 



thither," 



Did he whisper ? " Look forth from the flowers 

 to the sea ; 



