Hole In The Wall.

Gold ran our dripping oar-blades
And swirled gold pools behind;
Gold was our wavering, shining wake
That trailed us like a jewelled snake;
Gold the sun's pathway on the lake.
In glory all combined.
Before our prow black ramparts
Of tall cliffs starkly rose;
Blocked the bright sky, cast shadow
down,
Leapt to one darkly-jutting crown—
A pinnacle whose glooming frown
Bade further passage close.
And you said—young Moana
Whose eyes the sun perplexed—
You said we should not longer steer
Our boat's course toward those ramparts
sheer—
Ramparts that towered nearer—near,
Whose feet the white surf vexed.
The lake, it seemed, was ended;
All we could do was turn;
When straight before our dazzled eyes
The cliffs fell back, and hidden-wise
Opened a gate for our surprise—
A gateway hung with fern.
So quietly we floated
The oars’ dip was too loud.
We floated through, and then there lay
And sought our gaze for miles away
Another lake as fair as day,
Dream-fair as any cloud.

—Phillis Garrard Rowley (Bermuda Islands).

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