T H E  P O E M S  O F

W I L F R E D
C A M P B E L L



 

A Dedication




In the struggling, darkened horde
     Of this world’s wide moan,
Dreamer of the golden reed,
     Thou must thrive alone.


Too busy in its fevered marts,
5
     Too eager in its strife,
Where all would teach, and few would learn,
     We lose the larger life.

We pass the fields of magic by,
     To reach the favored place;
10

And sadly find our gods have gone
     With far averted face.

Eager to clutch the golden “then,”
     Or flee from out the fear,
Too late we learn, too late, alas,

15

     We missed the gloried “here.” [Page xv]