POETRY.
THE SONG TEAT FAILED.
I WATCHED a cloud-streak red in sunset burn, And as I looked, it faded ;
I strove a song to shape, your smile might earn, But thought drooped, sad and jaded.
It should have been a strain that meetly might With your pare life-stream mingle, Fresh as a breeze that from cold summits bright Blows down on muffled dingle.
Instead, the humours of a mind distraught Sighed back in self-derision; The short flush died in the deep gray, and naught The voice said, naught the vision.
Instead, there came the wearing inward ache, The fret, and the misgiving, The wounded love, the wondering pain that make The bitterness of living : Pale faith that fears itself, hopes without wings, Man's puzzled eyes pathetic, Ill omens that the ending century brings, A hush of tones poetic.
Some other sunset I may search the West, And that lost light discover, My longing compass its unthwarted quest, Fit lyric for true lover : Or, in earth's air I ne'er may see that same Fine dying flame of splendour, Yet, haply elsewhere find the power to frame A strong chant and a tender.
JOSEPH TRUMAN.
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