The Sentinel Poem by Maurice Thompson

What of this Hour that passes
With a shimmer of gold and blue?
O Love, through your crystal glasses
What seems this hour to you?
I see the gold and blue
Of the beautiful thing that passes
On the wind through the summer grasses,
But it is nothing new!


Halt! sweet Hour, I stand on guard;
You cannot pass this way!
My heart (my master) bids me ward
His outer court to-day;
Stop where you are, and stay.
Your face would witch full many a guard,
But I am old and stern and hard;
Beware, I say!


What of this bright Hour, standing
Just out before the gate,
A passage of right demanding
Because it groweth late?
O Love, must I ope the gate?
See, see the bright thing standing,
Sharp, scintillant, commanding!
Is it a fate?