202
FACES IN THE FIRE.
Ay, changeless through the changing scene,
The ghostly whisper rings between,
The dark refrain of 'might have been.'
The race is o'er I might have run,
The deeds are past I might have done,
And sere the wreath I might have won.
Sunk is the last faint flickering blaze;
The vision of departed days
Is vanished even as I gaze.
The pictures with their ruddy light
Are changed to dust and ashes white,
And I am left alone with night.
the end.
