Poetry.

Southern Cross, Volume 1, Issue 12, 17 June 1893, Page 2

Poetry.

the help that comes too late. ’Tie a -wearisome world, this world of ours. With its tangles small and great, Its weeds that smother the springing flowers, And its hapless strifes with fate, But the darkest day of its desolate days Sees the help that comes too late. Ah! woe for the word that is never said Till the ear is deaf to hear, And woe for the lack by the fainting head Of the ringing shout of cheer; Ah ! woo for the laggard feet that tread In the mournful wake of the bier. What booteth help when the heart is dumb ? What booteth a broken spar Of love thrown out when the lips are dumb. And life’s barque drifteth far. Ok! far and fast from the alien past, Over the moaning bar ? A pitiful thing the gift to-day That is dross and nothing worth, Though if it had come but yesterday I had brimmed with sweet the earth. A fading rose in a death cold hand, That perished in want and dearth. Who fain would help in this world of ours. Where sorrowful steps must fall Bring help in time to the waning powers, Ere the bier is spread with the pall; Nor send reserves when the flags are furled, And the dead beyond your call. For baffling most in this dreary world, With its tangles small and great, Its lonesome nights and its weary days, And its struggles forlorn with fate, I* that biggest grief, too deep for tears, Of the help that comes too late. —Harper’s Bazaar.