Labyrinth

The long shadow in the setting sun
Pricks pride with a golden spur
And drowns in the haunting groans
Of dying men.
Gheraoed in the dark tropic wild
The phantom flies in panic,
Tumbling over brambles,
Searching for a pencil of light.

So life moves here, too, in slow strides
On the monotonous extension
Of the sands of the beach.
Somewhere from the seas a strong voice calls;
But the roaring of the foaming surge
Extenuates the call that a thin
And languid breeze misses it always.

Thus pass the whispers of eternity.

The mist around the spirit
Sparkles in the setting sun
Making it a halo round the head -
But, what do we see there but a Minotaur?