The Last Vision
by Lila Broadhurst
The old man bows his tired white head
And closes heavy eyes,
Folds the work-worn vein laced hands,
And breaths his heavy sighs.
And visions past, fly to the mast
Of his bright ship of youth;
And strengths he'd half forgot, grew fast,
Of resurrected truth.
He felt the blood course through his veins,
Excitement clasp his hand,
'Twas if the world was born again, -
Nor stopped to understand.
The wild bright meadows of his past
Stirred in the summer breeze;
The sparkling sun, the river cast,
Like diamonds 'neath the trees.
Such pictures filled his heart and eyes -
He smiled, and clasp sweet paradise.