A Reed by the River/At Dusk
AT DUSK
Between this twilight and the morn
Years, like blown leaves may sweep away;
All life's stripped branches be unborne
And cast into the Sea of Day.
Years, like blown leaves may sweep away;
All life's stripped branches be unborne
And cast into the Sea of Day.
Then, little pulse beat soft and still,
Thou art a thread within the loom,
What matters, so thou dost but fill
The wheels within thy little room?
Thou art a thread within the loom,
What matters, so thou dost but fill
The wheels within thy little room?
What matter that they reel or jar,
And that their tangles irk and fret?
They turn not long, they turn not far,
And suddenly, one morn—forget.
And that their tangles irk and fret?
They turn not long, they turn not far,
And suddenly, one morn—forget.