  She dreams beneath lamplight pale, She dreams beneath lamplight pale, Like Beauty in the fairy-tale Of Messrs. Grimm. And as I gaze, behold, a Thing, A shape, a face white, menacing, Hangs o’er her ’mid a ghostly ring Of figures dim. Now o’er the figures dark I see A hand which moves relentlessly, Remorseless, black. The hand of Time—and through me flit The Solemn words by Omar writ, “Not all your piety nor wit Can lure it back.” She sighs, she stirs, her lids unclose Like petals of a pearly rose After the rain. And as she notes, with startled eye, The Station Clock, I hear her cry, “It’s twenty minutes past—oh, my! I’ve missed my train.” |
|
