The Passing

We say—“Time passes”—

It is we who pass,

Along the vast, vast

Screen—Eternity.

There is not time—but

As our shadows fade,

So do the scarlet

Wounds—sad grief has made.

And as our shadows

Dim—the pains and joys

Fall from us—as a

Child throws down his toys.

The present state of

Life—a seer can see—

Is but a passing

To the things—to be.

-       Mary Du Deney[1]

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[1] Mary Du Deney was perhaps from Australia; she published Poems during the Great War.