 | Poems Real and Ideal |  |
177
AND YET.
All seemed forlorn: bright hope had died away,—
The waves were grey,
And sullen waters on the shore-banks beat;
The heaven I once desired had vanished quite
And all its light—
And yet the world was sweet!
The waves were grey,
And sullen waters on the shore-banks beat;
The heaven I once desired had vanished quite
And all its light—
And yet the world was sweet!
Death and the end of all things hasteneth on,—
Soon are we gone,—
The gaudy-winged reproachful years are fleet;
A flower no sooner bloometh soft and fair
Than comes despair—
And yet earth's skies are sweet!
Soon are we gone,—
The gaudy-winged reproachful years are fleet;
178
Than comes despair—
And yet earth's skies are sweet!
The old hope has fled with swift resounding wings;
No glad voice sings;
Dreams silver-plumed and tender-lipped retreat;
To-day we live,—to-morrow our spent breath
Is still in death—
And yet the streams sound sweet!
No glad voice sings;
Dreams silver-plumed and tender-lipped retreat;
To-day we live,—to-morrow our spent breath
Is still in death—
And yet the streams sound sweet!
The summer mocks us with its wealth of blue
And wondrous hue
And fervent fierce unsympathetic heat;
The blossoms mock us with their wealth of sheen,
Gay midst the green—
Yet starlit nights are sweet!
And wondrous hue
And fervent fierce unsympathetic heat;
The blossoms mock us with their wealth of sheen,
Gay midst the green—
Yet starlit nights are sweet!
179
Places where love in old bright days was fair
And joys that were
The one same swift despairing chant repeat;
The grass will shortly wave above our tomb
With green wild bloom—
And yet the grass is sweet!
And joys that were
The one same swift despairing chant repeat;
The grass will shortly wave above our tomb
With green wild bloom—
And yet the grass is sweet!
Women are frail, and not so true as fair;
Their gold bright hair
Withers, as withers the rich auburn wheat;
They pass,—yea, all things pass; the loveliest things
Have readiest wings—
Yet lovely things are sweet!
Their gold bright hair
Withers, as withers the rich auburn wheat;
They pass,—yea, all things pass; the loveliest things
Have readiest wings—
Yet lovely things are sweet!
Love and all tender joys will soon be o'er
And we no more
Shall thrill at the approach of woman's feet;
Quiet we soon in the chill earth shall lie,
My love and I—
And yet my love is sweet!
And we no more
Shall thrill at the approach of woman's feet;
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My love and I—
And yet my love is sweet!
June, 1881.
| Poems Real and Ideal | |