There's silence in the city, deep and dark;
There's solitude beneath the painted glee
Of all, who strive to push their frail barque
Across the black, unfathomable sea
Of Time. The heated pomp and busy roar
Is but the raging of that angry sea,
Whose inky waters wash the silent shore,
The silent sands of Life. We cannot be
What we would be, and so our ship is cast
Upon the silent seashore, rudderless,
And lost; while we ourselves fall from the mast
On to the dreary deck, where pitiless
Ambition, rosy with Eternal Life,
Pours out the contents of her golden urn
Into the naked sea. Thus in the strife
There comes a silence dim -- thus man doth learn
How small this great world really is -- how mild
And still is this our life so seeming wild.
First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 2 June 1909
