 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
The Time to weep.—Anonymous.
There is a time to laugh,
When Joy may raise his billows like the deep,
And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff;—
But, O, when is the season not to weep?
When Joy may raise his billows like the deep,
And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff;—
But, O, when is the season not to weep?
Is it when vernal suns
Unfold the silken flower and satin leaf?
Or when the hoar frost nips the fading ones,
That frailer beings may refrain from grief
Unfold the silken flower and satin leaf?
Or when the hoar frost nips the fading ones,
That frailer beings may refrain from grief
Is it when health and bloom
Are painted on the smiling cheek of youth?
Or when disease is training for the tomb
The heart which cherishes its bitter truth?
Are painted on the smiling cheek of youth?
Or when disease is training for the tomb
The heart which cherishes its bitter truth?
Look not upon the brow,
That shows no furrow from the plough of years;
There is a bend of peace upon it now—
But, O, futurity is full of tears!
That shows no furrow from the plough of years;
There is a bend of peace upon it now—
But, O, futurity is full of tears!
The prattling child at play
May charm itself, and dry its tears awhile;
But could its vision reach beyond to-day,
And read its sorrows, think you it would smile?
May charm itself, and dry its tears awhile;
But could its vision reach beyond to-day,
And read its sorrows, think you it would smile?
281
Destruction has its home,
And Mirth is destined to some favorite spot;
Disease and all his brothers do not roam;
But where, O Wretchedness, where art thou not?
And Mirth is destined to some favorite spot;
Disease and all his brothers do not roam;
But where, O Wretchedness, where art thou not?
Thou hast thy dark abode
In the lone desert—in the prison's cell;
And in the gayest scene, where ever flowed
The tide of wine and music, thou dost dwell.
In the lone desert—in the prison's cell;
And in the gayest scene, where ever flowed
The tide of wine and music, thou dost dwell.
Thou art where friends are torn
And held asunder by reluctant space;
And meeting friends—O, do they never mourn
When Memory paints thine image on the face?
And held asunder by reluctant space;
And meeting friends—O, do they never mourn
When Memory paints thine image on the face?
Thy inmates of the breast—
All other passions—are but weak and brief;
Joy, Hope, Pride, Love and Hatred have a rest,
But thou art constant as our breath, O Grief!
All other passions—are but weak and brief;
Joy, Hope, Pride, Love and Hatred have a rest,
But thou art constant as our breath, O Grief!
Then let the trifler laugh,
And Joy lift his glad billows like the deep,
And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff;
It is far better for the wise to weep.
And Joy lift his glad billows like the deep,
And twine with wreaths of flowers the cup we quaff;
It is far better for the wise to weep.
| The American common-place book of poetry | |