Clinton Scollard (Клинтон Сколлард)
The Spectral Rowers
What is that shimmering line of white
Gliding under the stark midnight--
Gliding--gliding--gliding--gliding--
Where the river gleams when the moon is bright?
There is never a sound save the night bird's cry,
And the languid water lapsing by--
Lapsing--lapsing--lapsing--lapsing--
Under the arch of a leaden sky.
'T is the winding Garavogue's spectral crew,
Bound for the port of dreams-come-true--
Rowing--rowing--rowing--rowing--
With a swinging stroke that is firm and true.
Do they ever reach their bourn? may be;
Yet who can say?--not we!--not we!--
Fading--fading--fading--fading--
Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea.
'T is so with all of the visions of man,
Howe'er he strive and howe'er he plan--
Fleeting--fleeting--fleeting--fleeting--
For life, alas, is a narrow span!
Clinton Scollard’s other poems:
