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Poem by Clinton Scollard

The Spectral Rowers

  What is that shimmering line of white
  Gliding under the stark midnight--
  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--
  Under the arch of a leaden sky.

  'T is the winding Garavogue's spectral crew,
  Bound for the port of dreams-come-true--
  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!--
  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--
  For life, alas, is a narrow span!

Clinton Scollard

Clinton Scollard's other poems:
  1. Dirge for a Sailor
  2. The Cripple
  3. The Tides
  4. The Little Creek Coonana
  5. The Mist and the Sea

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