Lines in Pleasant Places Rhythmics of many moods and quantities. Wise and otherwise |
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HOW WEARING IT IS! |
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 | Lines in Pleasant Places |  |
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HOW WEARING IT IS!
In the journey of life, with care ill at ease,
And fortune unfavoring grudging its smile,
We struggle our burnings of heart to appease,
And think we succeed, but don't all the while.
Like the rust on the iron, it eats day by day,
Until, too far gaining, past bearing it is,
When we sigh to ourselves, and despairingly say,
O fortune! O fortune! how wearing it is!
And fortune unfavoring grudging its smile,
We struggle our burnings of heart to appease,
And think we succeed, but don't all the while.
Like the rust on the iron, it eats day by day,
Until, too far gaining, past bearing it is,
When we sigh to ourselves, and despairingly say,
O fortune! O fortune! how wearing it is!
When love first invades the temple of youth,
And throws o'er the victim its conquering chain,
His bosom is filled with a tempest of ruth,
And he sinks in a spasm of amorous pain.
As day by day thus by slow torture he burns,
With even a martyr's comparing it is;
For the end of his torment he lovingly yearns,
And says in his passion, How wearing it is!
And throws o'er the victim its conquering chain,
His bosom is filled with a tempest of ruth,
And he sinks in a spasm of amorous pain.
As day by day thus by slow torture he burns,
With even a martyr's comparing it is;
For the end of his torment he lovingly yearns,
And says in his passion, How wearing it is!
The indulgent papa o'er his quarterly bills,
That fashion or folly have brought to his ken,
Looks anxiously on them with aguish chills,
And thinks himself the worst used among men;
He mutters a word—we do not well know
What word—though very like swearing it is,
But he counts out the cash with a desperate brow,
That serves to tell us how wearing it is.
That fashion or folly have brought to his ken,
Looks anxiously on them with aguish chills,
And thinks himself the worst used among men;
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What word—though very like swearing it is,
But he counts out the cash with a desperate brow,
That serves to tell us how wearing it is.
The fond mother toils o'er her pale-burning lamp,
While care for her darling inspires her breast;
He has ruined his jacket, the good-natured scamp,
And steals from his parent her well-needed rest;
But cheerly she smiles, as her needle she plies,
Her heart for his mischief uncaring it is,
For she knows that in play his happiness lies,
The while she admits how wearing it is.
While care for her darling inspires her breast;
He has ruined his jacket, the good-natured scamp,
And steals from his parent her well-needed rest;
But cheerly she smiles, as her needle she plies,
Her heart for his mischief uncaring it is,
For she knows that in play his happiness lies,
The while she admits how wearing it is.
The constant dropping may wear the stone,
And so runs the adage that all well know;
And in every lot a mortal has known
There is dropping to prove to us “that 'tis so;”
But stout of heart, we will let it all drop,
With a confidence never despairing it is,
Till living and time shall finally stop,
And never acknowledge how wearing it is.
And so runs the adage that all well know;
And in every lot a mortal has known
There is dropping to prove to us “that 'tis so;”
But stout of heart, we will let it all drop,
With a confidence never despairing it is,
Till living and time shall finally stop,
And never acknowledge how wearing it is.
| Lines in Pleasant Places | |