THE SWINGING LAMPS OF DAWN 



NEAR the threshold of my home 



A cunning foe had strayed, 

 And on a rose tree in the loam 



A wondrous thing he made; 

 Under cover of the night 



He built a silken gin, 

 And at the dawn of morning light 



Bade all the homeless in. 



His shining cords were stretched with skill, 



And woven with such grace 

 That none would dream he meant to kill 



In such a royal place. 

 The beauty of his bright bazar 



No one could ever fear; 

 Its mirrors caught the morning star 



That twinkled crystal clear. 



The swinging lamps were globes of dew 



Enkindled by the dawn, 

 And when the morning breezes blew 



Across the lighted lawn, 

 The glowing lamps swung to and fro, 



Delighting every eye, 

 Till dressed in gowns of light aglow 



Was every flower and fly. 



But when the lights began to wane, 



As sea-tides slowly ebb, 

 I heard the plaintive notes of pain 



Soft stealing from a web; 

 And, as my cautious feet drew nigh, 



I heard the dying song 

 Of one bewildered, foolish fly 



That watched the web too long. 

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