THE POSTERN GATE

I chose me a lovely garden,

Beneath whose ivied wall

A lake's blue wavelets murmur

As evening shadows fall,—

A garden, whose leafy windows

Frame visions of Alpine snow

On peaks that burn to crimson

In sunset's afterglow.

And there, in its sweet seclusion,

I built me a mansion fair,

With many a classic statue

And Eastern relic rare,

And volumes, whose precious pages

Hold all that the wise have said,—

The latest among the living,

The greatest among the dead.

And I sat in those fragrant arbors

Of laurel and palm and pine,

And held in the tranquil twilight

My darling's hand in mine;

And said “We will here be happy,

And let the mad world go;

Its gold no longer tempts us,

Still less do its pomp and show;

“No more shall its cares annoy us,

And under these stately trees

With Nature and Art and Letters

Our souls shall take their ease.”

But a brood of griefs pursued us,

Like evil birds of prey;

They lodged in the trees’ tall branches,

They shadowed the cloudless day;

They flew to the darkened casement,

And beat on the wind-swept shade,

And oft in the sleepless midnight

We listened and were afraid;

And daily came the tidings

Of folly and crime and woe,

And one by one kept dying

The friends of long ago.

For the Past is ever one's master,

And Memory mocks at space,

And Trouble travels with us,

However swift our pace;

And envy is always envy,

Though called by a foreign name,

And perfidy, greed, and malice

Are everywhere the same.

I thought I had left behind me

That gloomy realm of care,

But really one never leaves it,

Its shadow is everywhere.

So I learned at last the lesson

That walls, and gates, and keys

Can never exclude life's sorrows;

They enter as they please.

And if we ever acquire

The perfect life we crave,

A subtle warning tells us

Its background is the grave.

Perhaps I have almost reached it,

For when I am walking late,

I see a shrouded stranger

Beside my postern gate;

And a sudden chill creeps o'er me

At sight of that figure grim,

For I fancy that he is waiting

For me in the twilight dim;

And I know he will one day beckon

With gesture of command,

And I shall follow him mutely.

Away to the Silent Land,

And all that I here have treasured

In fountain, and tree, and stone

Will pass to the hands of others,

Whom I have never known.

Hence over his sombre features

There flickers a ghostly smile,

As if he would say, “What matter?

Your cares are not worth while;

“The trouble which gives you anguish,

The woes o'er which you weep,

Will all be soon forgotten

In my long, dreamless sleep.

“Enjoy the fleeting moment;

I cannot always wait,

And the glow of the coming sunset

Is gilding the postern gate.”