POSTPONEMENT.
Behind their veils of clinging mist,
Elusive as a dream,
In changing rose and amethyst
The mountains stood supreme.
Consumed as by some inward fire
Of brooding mystery,
They held the heart of his desire—
His love and poetry.
And always, ever, some dear time—
So ran his hidden hopes—
He meant to leave his task and climb
Their beckoning emerald slopes.
To scale their precipices bold,
And watch the rose-wreaths rise,
To see the gates of Heaven unrolled
Before his longing eyes.
But always, always, something pressed
Between him and his aim;
He kept his dream, but gave the rest
To meet the common claim.
He ploughed the black and fertile plain,
And sowed the waiting soil,
And harvested the yellow grain,
And spent his days in toil;
Nor failed to give a helping hand
When others stood in need;
But strove to meet each new demand
With patient word and deed.
So went the seasons. Wrapped in mist
The mountains, blue and gold,
Behind their veils of amethyst
Still wait, but—he is old!