ST. ANTHONY'S TOWNSHIP
The trees of the elder lands,
Give ear to the march of Time,
To his steps that are heavy and slow
In the streets of ruined cities
That were great awhile ago—
Skeletons bare to the skies
Or mummies hid in the sands,
Wasting to rubble and lime.
Ancient are they and wise;
But the gum-trees down by the creek,
Gnarled, archaic and grey,
Are even as wise as they.
They have learned in a score of years
The lore that their brethren know;
For they saw a town arise,
There are pits by the dry, dead river,
Whence the diggers won their gold,
A circle traced in the grass,
A hearthstone long a-cold,
A path none come to seek—
The trail of the pioneers—
Where the sheep wind to and fro;
And the rest is a tale that is told
By voices quavering and weak
Of men grown old.
Gilbert Sheldon