 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
244
THE AUSPICES.
I never thought, in my younger years,
When the sky was my spirit's home,
And I drank at the cup of rapture's tears
And longed like a star to roam,
That my brightest hope would fade like dew,
And my proudest dream depart,
And all prove false that seemed most true
To a still and thoughtful heart.
When the sky was my spirit's home,
And I drank at the cup of rapture's tears
And longed like a star to roam,
That my brightest hope would fade like dew,
And my proudest dream depart,
And all prove false that seemed most true
To a still and thoughtful heart.
I thought not that blue hill and stream
Could be seen by a reckless eye;
That I should shun the softest gleam
Of the sunny sea and sky;
That the cross of care and the spell of woe
Would change my deepest feeling,
And leave me alone in grief to know
That my spirit is past all healing.
Could be seen by a reckless eye;
That I should shun the softest gleam
Of the sunny sea and sky;
That the cross of care and the spell of woe
Would change my deepest feeling,
And leave me alone in grief to know
That my spirit is past all healing.
The faces and forms of silent things
Were my bliss in earlier hours,
The dryads that dwell by forest springs,
And the nymphs of wildwood bowers;
But the dreams of morn and sunset dim
Have gone from my spirit now,
And I have chanted my latest hymn
From the mountain's misty brow.
Were my bliss in earlier hours,
The dryads that dwell by forest springs,
And the nymphs of wildwood bowers;
But the dreams of morn and sunset dim
Have gone from my spirit now,
And I have chanted my latest hymn
From the mountain's misty brow.
But it recks not what I felt in days
Unblest in their earliest breaking,
For the time hath passed when I sighed for praise,
And I mourn not friends forsaking;
They have left me at an early time,
And I wander on untended,
But my heart is free from the stain of crime,
And I pass not on unfriended.
Unblest in their earliest breaking,
For the time hath passed when I sighed for praise,
And I mourn not friends forsaking;
245
And I wander on untended,
But my heart is free from the stain of crime,
And I pass not on unfriended.
My mind has searched to the depth of things,
And it dwells and toils alone,
Waiting to soar on its tireless wings
To a high and holy throne.
No fruit or flower its toil may crown,
But it hath in itself a power,
That will not sink in sadness down
Till its last departing hour.
And it dwells and toils alone,
Waiting to soar on its tireless wings
To a high and holy throne.
No fruit or flower its toil may crown,
But it hath in itself a power,
That will not sink in sadness down
Till its last departing hour.
For o'er the heart long sternly tried
A sightless spirit throws
The radiant might of a seraph's pride,
And a bliss that ever glows.
Though the mock and scorn and libel low
Of the coward may assail,
Yet the guarded mind can never bow,
Nor the conscious triumph fail.
A sightless spirit throws
The radiant might of a seraph's pride,
And a bliss that ever glows.
Though the mock and scorn and libel low
Of the coward may assail,
Yet the guarded mind can never bow,
Nor the conscious triumph fail.
I had friends once—I have dark foes now—
They wronged me while confiding!
I marvel not at a broken vow—
Their Truth knows not abiding.
But they have not power to dim one ray
Of the soul my God hath given,
And I patiently wait a brighter day
That will dawn in a holy Heaven.
They wronged me while confiding!
I marvel not at a broken vow—
Their Truth knows not abiding.
But they have not power to dim one ray
Of the soul my God hath given,
And I patiently wait a brighter day
That will dawn in a holy Heaven.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |