Flit on and ever on that train,
The thoughts which bring it peace—or pain.
V
A SPHINX
What are your thoughts, wild Dreamer from of old?
Who shall foreknow thy dark and devious way?
What hand dare limn in colours grey or gold
The close-furled puzzle of thine unborn day?
As in its first chill early glimmering morn
Some simple prophet cons the coming year,
Tells all its warm days, measures tear by tear