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Poem by Clinton Scollard The Spectral Rowers What is that shimmering line of white Gliding under the stark midnight-- Gliding--gliding--gliding--gliding-- Where the river gleams when the moon is bright? There is never a sound save the night bird's cry, And the languid water lapsing by-- Lapsing--lapsing--lapsing--lapsing-- Under the arch of a leaden sky. 'T is the winding Garavogue's spectral crew, Bound for the port of dreams-come-true-- Rowing--rowing--rowing--rowing-- With a swinging stroke that is firm and true. Do they ever reach their bourn? may be; Yet who can say?--not we!--not we!-- Fading--fading--fading--fading-- Ere morn comes over the hills to the sea. 'T is so with all of the visions of man, Howe'er he strive and howe'er he plan-- Fleeting--fleeting--fleeting--fleeting-- For life, alas, is a narrow span! Clinton Scollard Clinton Scollard's other poems: 1189 Views |
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