Alice Hunt Bartlett

Illusion

Is it too late to sit at thy charmed feet,
    Enchantress of our youth and of our age? . . .
    Is there one, more than thou, a greater sage?—
The hours we spend with thee are fair and fleet—
Art thou a dream, vision, or truth’s complete
    Embodiment, illumining life’s page—
    Or challenge that some fate has willed to wage,
In giving each his portion, harsh or sweet?

It matters not thy country or thy kin,
    The winds of progress blow about thy shrine,
’Tis thou who makes the breathless loser . . . win;
    This life’s great animating force is thine,
And thou the light that burns through life, within.
    Remain, Illusion, sorceress divine!