A poem by Thomas Runciman

Despairless! Hopeless! Quietly I wait
On these unpeopled tracks the happy close
Of Day, whose advent rang with noise elate,
Whose later stage was quick with mirthful shows
And clasping loves, with hate and hearty blows,
And dreams of coming gifts withheld by Fate
From morrow unto morrow, till her great
Dread eyes 'gan tell of other gifts than those,
And her advancing wings gloomed like a pall;
Her speech foretelling joy became a dirge
As piteous as pitiless; and all
My company had passed beyond the verge
And lost me ere Fate raised her blinding wings....
Hark! through the dusk a bird "at heaven's gate sings."

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