Postponement

Behind their veils of clinging mist, Elusive as a dream, In changing rose and amethyst The mountains stood supreme.

Consumed as by some inward fire Of brooding mystery, They held the heart of his desire — His love and poetry.

And always, ever, some dear time — So ran his hidden hopes — He meant to leave his task and climb Their beckoning emerald slopes,

To scale their precipices bold, And watch the rose-wreaths rise, To see the gates of Heaven unrolled Before his longing eyes.

But always, always, something pressed Between him and his aim; He kept his dream, but gave the rest To meet the common claim.

He ploughed the black and fertile plain, And sowed the waiting soil, And harvested the yellow grain, And spent his days in toil;

Nor failed to give a helping hand When others stood in need; But strove to meet each new demand With patient word and deed.

So went the seasons. Wrapped in mist The mountains, blue and gold, Behind their veils of amethyst Still wait, but — he is old !