Song of the wave / George Cabot Lodge [electronic text]

IX
PASSING DAYS

THEY walk across my life with great, grave eyes That greet my questioning hands with silent scorn And blossoms break upon their crowns of thorn, While garlands wither that their children prize. I kiss their lips and grow a little wise, A little patient, while my strength is worn Beneath the spur of each succeeding morn That dowers its evening with a fresh surmise. Their message dies with them, an empty word; But memory garners, in a wild regret, Their silent beauty that the heart preferred. And in the fire of hopeless love they seem So real with sorrow, that I half forget My soul shall wake and find the days a dream.