 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
III. High as man's hopes may fly, he ever falls
High as man's hopes may fly, he ever falls
On his own shadow when on earth he alights.
Joy's exaltation, Love's upspringing flights,
Lift us in air but for brief intervals.
We are Earth's children, we are Nature's thralls,
Whom Discontent pursues, and black Care spites,
And Fancy lures, and Disappointment blights,
And Fortune drives about like random balls.
On his own shadow when on earth he alights.
Joy's exaltation, Love's upspringing flights,
Lift us in air but for brief intervals.
We are Earth's children, we are Nature's thralls,
Whom Discontent pursues, and black Care spites,
And Fancy lures, and Disappointment blights,
And Fortune drives about like random balls.
Nothing is good to us—such fools are we—
But what is lost or promised. Naught we know
So sweet as that dear song of “Long ago,”
So glad as that wild dream of “Yet to be.”
Will death unite the Future with the Past,
And clasp perfected Hope in Memory's arms at last?
But what is lost or promised. Naught we know
So sweet as that dear song of “Long ago,”
So glad as that wild dream of “Yet to be.”
Will death unite the Future with the Past,
And clasp perfected Hope in Memory's arms at last?
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |