The sunny hours wait at strange behest.
Here restless Time himself has come to rest.
The golden ivory of primeval light
Dwells in its Spanish moss,
Falling in living cascades from the trees,
And who goes there in summer hears the bees
Booming among the Pride of India trees,
Dull grumbling tones,
A deaf man dreams,
Like far-off rumbling sound of boulder-stones
Washed down by headlong streams.
This is Time's temple;
Here he sleepy lies,
Watching the buzzards circle in the skies,
While shrubs slough off the pod,
Making a carpet delicate
Of petals strewn upon the sod,
Fit for the silver slippers of the moon
Upon the streets of Nod.
I saw him once asleep
Down by the dark ponds
Where alligators creep.
He had been fishing with a willow withe,
And by him lay his hourglass and scythe,
Resting upon the grass;
They lay there in the sun,
And through the glass the sands had ceased to run.
H.A.
DUSK
They tell me she is beautiful, my City,
That she is colorful and quaint, alone
Among the cities.
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