The little gate of parting leads towards a frowning lane,
And white steps passing thro' the shade to garish light again
A lantern blowing in the wind, all haloed by the rain.
The little gate of parting leads to where the engine stands,
And on the dead face of the clock go round the mourning hands.
Oh, to turn my hour-glass back and stay the slipping sands!
The semaphore against the sky is like a gallows thing;
A flying fox among the trees breaks out on evil wing;
The grate of wheels is on the rail ... and out the long cars swing!
I cannot hear the birds to-day, nor see the sunny skies,
There is such aching in my heart, such sorrow in my eyes ...
And right across our way of love the gate of parting lies!
First published in The Lone Hand, 2 December 1912
