 | Songs of summer |  |
116
STANZAS.
I often wish that I could know
The fate in store for me,
The measure of my joy and woe—
The man that I shall be.
I do not fear to meet the worst
The gathering years can give;
My life has been a life accurst
From youth, and yet I live.
The Future may be overcast,
But never darker than the Past.
The fate in store for me,
The measure of my joy and woe—
The man that I shall be.
I do not fear to meet the worst
The gathering years can give;
My life has been a life accurst
From youth, and yet I live.
The Future may be overcast,
But never darker than the Past.
My mind will grow as years depart,
With all the wingéd hours;
And all my buried seeds of Art
Will bloom again in flowers;
But buried hopes no more will bloom,
As in the days of old;
My youth is lying in its tomb,
My heart is dead and cold!
And certain sad, but nameless cares
Have flecked my locks with silver hairs.
With all the wingéd hours;
And all my buried seeds of Art
Will bloom again in flowers;
But buried hopes no more will bloom,
As in the days of old;
My youth is lying in its tomb,
My heart is dead and cold!
And certain sad, but nameless cares
Have flecked my locks with silver hairs.
117
No bitter feeling clouds my grief,
No angry thoughts of thee;
For thou art now a faded leaf
Upon a fading tree.
From day to day I see thee sink
From love, and faith, and truth;
I sigh, but dare not bid thee think
Of what thou wert in youth:
For oh! the thought of what thou art
Must be a hell within thy heart!
No angry thoughts of thee;
For thou art now a faded leaf
Upon a fading tree.
From day to day I see thee sink
From love, and faith, and truth;
I sigh, but dare not bid thee think
Of what thou wert in youth:
For oh! the thought of what thou art
Must be a hell within thy heart!
My life is full of care and pain,
My heart of old desires;
But living embers yet remain
Below its dying fires:
Nor do I fear what all the years
May have in store for me,
For I have washed away with tears
The blots of Memory:
But thou—despite the love on high—
What is there left thee but to die!
My heart of old desires;
But living embers yet remain
Below its dying fires:
Nor do I fear what all the years
May have in store for me,
For I have washed away with tears
The blots of Memory:
But thou—despite the love on high—
What is there left thee but to die!
| Songs of summer | |