The Final Strain

Georgia Douglas Johnson (1880?–1966) · 1917

I climbed the craggy hill of fame,
Heart-sore and wearily,
Stood on her gleaming goal at length,
And sighed in ecstasy.

“O God,” I cried, “what bliss”⁠—when lo!
Came stealing like a pall,
The strains of Life’s Last Symphony,
In Prelude, to⁠—the call.