Poem 60

61 of 73 · 1 min of reading

THE times are nightfall, look, their light grows less;

The times are winter, watch, a world undone:

They waste, they wither worse; they as they run

Or bring more or more blazon man's distress.

And I not help. Nor word now of success:

All is from wreck, here, there, to rescue one--

Work which to see scarce so much as begun

Makes welcome death, does dear forgetfulness.

Or what is else? There is your world within.

There rid the dragons, root out there the sin.

Your will is law in that small commonweal . . .

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End of part 61 of 73