John Myers O'Hara Poems

What shape so furtive steals along the dim
   Bleak street, barren of throngs, this day of June;
   This day of rest, when all the roses swoon
In Attic vales where dryads wait for him?
...

Atropos, dread
   One of the Three,
Holding the thread
   Woven for me;
...

Golden pulse grew on the shore,
   Ferns along the hill,
And the red cliff roses bore
   Bees to drink their fill;
...

With all the fairest angels nearest God,
   The ineffable true of heart around the throne,
   There shall I find you waiting when the flown
Dream leaves my heart insentient as the clod;
...

By the fond name that was his own and mine,
   The last upon his lips that strove with doom,
   He called me and I saw the light assume
A sudden glory and around him shine;
...