MY hand, my pen, lie still, My voice is dumb, No more, unsought, at will Bright visions come; No more on faery meads, The light forms dance, Nor borne by winged steeds Speeds swift Romance Along the rugged road, With toiling paces slow, Bent by Time's heavy load, The dull feet go. The clear Dawns now shall grow For younger eyes, I mark no more the glow On sunset skies; Fearless across the foam The gay barks fleet, But mine no more may roam, Since rest grows sweet; Toil brings its fitting meed, The haven's rest; Toil has its joys indeed, But this is best. Let younger footsteps soar To snows untrod, I strive, I climb no more, Musing with God. Through the closed gates of home Unheeded, half-forgot, Fainter the memories come Of what is not. The Past shows like a dream, The Present hurries fast; Courage! Life's seaward stream Flows calm at last! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...WHEN I WROTE A LITTLE by HAYDEN CARRUTH A PORTRAIT OF MY ROOF by JAMES GALVIN PROVING by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON ANSWER TO PRAYER by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON BATTLEDORE AND SHUTTLECOCK by AMY LOWELL |