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The Wildcat

Prospect

The years have stolen the gold of yesterday
And left the present empty, drab and cold;
We love to hear the centuries retold
In tales that lead our reasoning astray.
The wings that lifted us are torn away;
Our feet are lead which iron shackles hold
In bond; we crouch like lambs within a fold
That troop at pipings of the shepherd's lay.

Our windows open on a western strand,
Where sunset's tangles glories hurry on;
We bar the shutters with reluctant hand,
And, drunk with ashen dreams, forget the drawn;
We linger and we lose, the Orient bland,
With early fingers, gilds the lighted lawn.