Premonitions
by Robert Underwood Johnson

There’s a shadow on the grass
that was never there before,
and the ripples as they pass
whisper of an unseen oar;
And the song we knew by rote,
seems to falter in the throat,
a footfall, scarcely noted,
lingers near the open door.
Omens that were once but jest,
Now are messengers of Fate;
and the blessing held the best
cometh not or comes too late.
Yet what ever life may lack,
not a blown leaf beckons back,
Forward! Forward! is the summons.
Forward! Where new horizons wait.