How oft in public meetings past,
Where sense was not and talk was loud,
We caught a glimpse of long white hair
Upon the outskirts of the crowd;
And then the tide of talk ebbed back,
While here and there above the din,
A workman cried, "Here's old Sir Jack,"
And made a path to let him in.
Now Peter sitting at the gate,
While crowds of souls are waiting there,
Perchance upon the outer fringe
May catch a glimpse of silvery hair;
While some rough soul who went from here
To that great meeting in the blue
Will cry aloud, "Here's old Sir Jack,"
And make a path to let him through.
Jack Robertson
Henry Lawson
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Poem topics: soul, blue, white, long, great, sense, public, crowd, hair, jack, talk, glimpse, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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