The lamp is lit, the wick burns clear;
The night is still, without, within.
Time in his chariot draws not near
To rouse the call of chanticleer,
Day to begin.
Only the ancient clock betrays
The passing of the present now;
But though his finger onward strays
He seems to mark recovered days
From memory’s slough.
His bland face looks on what is gone
With lamplight tremulous, benign.
His hesitating tick beats on
And back into the past we’re won
By his design.
The lamplight flowing through the room
Becomes the sun. The walls recede;
Broad day strides in, dispels the gloom,
Shadows are swept by golden broom
And thought is freed.
Dear voices sing again the airs
With which my yesterdays were sweet;
Eyes smile anew and, unawares,
I hurry back to join their prayers
On eager feet.
Weekly Times 6.1.61