THE GOLDEN BOWL

By Frank Oliver Call

In a dream he seems to lie

Gazing at the golden bowl,

Where dim visions passing by

Whisper vaguely to his soul.

Restless phantoms come and go

Crowned with cypress or with bay;

Sad or merry, swift or slow,

Tread they down the winding way.

Still the pageant winds along,—

Youth and age and love and lust,

Till at last the motley throng

Fades and crumbles into dust.

All in vain upon the bowl

Gaze the wondering, boyish eyes;

He shall read its hidden scroll

Only when it shattered lies.

For a wondrous light shall gleam

From the scattered fragments born.

Boy, dream on, for life's a dream,

Followed by a golden morn.