Retrospection

From the hilltops at sunset, Golden Gate.

DEEP in the pitying bosom of the sea,

Ebbs fast the glory of a dying day.

And on the giant battlements

That guard these glowing portals of the night,

Another niche appears, full chiseled, deep.

How many fateful names enregistered

In burning letters on that scroll of Time.

But what of it—What matters that

The chastened page be rudely blotted out

By hands that ever faltered as they wrote;

That ere the cruel ink was scarcely dry,

Hot tears erased the shameful entry?

Nay the thing has passed

And deep within the glowing embers lies

The substance—and the form

Ethereal shapes assume that seem, withal,

On golden pinions to have taken flight

And vanished with the spirits of the night.