Poems (Storrie)/The Core of Time
The Core of Time
My path lies through an orchard, where the sun Filters among the heavy-laden boughs, I pass the ruddy fruit, and pluck not one, Dreaming, with deeply knitted brows Of God knows what, some fairer, finer trees Guarded, perchance, by some Hesperides, Or winnowing from the scented breeze Some airy harvest of ideal fruits Growing on curious trees that never threw Into earth's homely breast their searching roots, Or clean, sharp kisses of our sunshine knew.
And dreaming thus, with eyes thrown far afield I miss the sweets that Fate had planned fur me, And curse the barren days that only yield Unto my hands their native paucity; And that rich harvest that I did not heed, Whose fruits were fitted to my real need Is vanished, and I have no garnered seed To face the future with, and I discern Too late, the nice adjustment of the soul To its environment, and, weeping, learn The value of each fragment to the whole; This is the future that we have to-day, This is the vision beautiful that now we see, Each moment, when its husk is stripped away, Reveals a hidden kernel—Opportunity.