OF AMBROSE BIERCE
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Sages in procession stalking
Moved majestic to and fro,
And each lowly mortal walking
In their shadow stilled his talking,
Heeding the sonorous flow
Of their wisdom, loud or low,
Long ago.
Angel Woman, younger, fairer
Far than she that now we know,
Gave men meeting with a rarer
Grace. No graybeard cried, "Beware her
Tongue and temper!" She was slow
To wrath. I tell you that was so,
Long ago.
Ah, the miracle of morning.
Setting all the world aglow
Like a smile of light adorning
God's own face, held no forewarning
Of the tempest that would blow—
Sign and prophecy of woe,
Long ago.
Hope from every hilltop beckoned
To the happy throngs below;
And they confidently reckoned
