Beneath the grinning sky, there is no spot,
With silences enough to shroud my pain;
Old voices leap again and yet again;
From out the golden years when grief was not.
I shrink from eyes that question red and hot,
Eyes mock me from the wind and slanting rain;
Gone all the sombre peace of stretching plain,
And sea! Ah Christ! I loved and am forgot!
Yet, still there are shut doors I dimly know,
Whose well-thumbed lintels hold each trembling touch!
Within my hand alone there lies the key
To ope me these! One turn and I shall go
Triumphant, freed, not fearing overmuch,
Into the dark of Death's grim Sanctuary.
First published in The Lone Hand, 1 June 1920
