 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
237
EVENING IN SUMMER.
Oh, love of mine, we sit beneath this tree,
We smile, and all is exquisite to see;
The moon, the earth, the heavens are all so fair,—
The very centre of the world are we.
We smile, and all is exquisite to see;
The moon, the earth, the heavens are all so fair,—
The very centre of the world are we.
And yet, 'neath all our happiness, there lie
Dim doubts and fears, for ever lurking nigh;
We are so happy now, one moment's space,
Then Love, and Life, and all take wing and fly.
Dim doubts and fears, for ever lurking nigh;
We are so happy now, one moment's space,
Then Love, and Life, and all take wing and fly.
Where shall we be a hundred years from now?
Where were we but a hundred years ago?
Behind, before, there hangs a solemn veil,—
What was, or shall be, neither do we know.
Where were we but a hundred years ago?
Behind, before, there hangs a solemn veil,—
What was, or shall be, neither do we know.
A passing gleam, called Life, is o'er us thrown,
Then swift we flit into the dark unknown;
As we have come we go,—no voice comes back
From that deep silence where we wend alone.
Then swift we flit into the dark unknown;
As we have come we go,—no voice comes back
From that deep silence where we wend alone.
Stay! stay! oh, ever-fleeing Time, thy flight!
Make this one happy moment infinite;
Now, while we touch the heavens, and stand on earth,
And Love makes mystical all sound and sight.
Make this one happy moment infinite;
Now, while we touch the heavens, and stand on earth,
And Love makes mystical all sound and sight.
238
No! the sad moon, so plaintive and so fair,
Hath seen how many here as now we are,
As happy in their perfectness of love,—
And seen, unmoved, as many in despair.
Hath seen how many here as now we are,
As happy in their perfectness of love,—
And seen, unmoved, as many in despair.
She will arise, and through the darkling trees
Gaze down, as now, through countless centuries,
While other lovers here shall breathe their vows,
When we have vanished like this passing breeze.
Gaze down, as now, through countless centuries,
While other lovers here shall breathe their vows,
When we have vanished like this passing breeze.
Oh, dreadful mystery! Thought beats its wings,
And strains against the utmost bound of things,
And drops exhausted back to earth again,
And moans, distressed by vague imaginings.
And strains against the utmost bound of things,
And drops exhausted back to earth again,
And moans, distressed by vague imaginings.
Each to himself, in all his hopes and dreams,
The very centre of creation seems;
And death and blank annihilation each
As some impossible vague terror deems.
The very centre of creation seems;
And death and blank annihilation each
As some impossible vague terror deems.
Yet, of the countless myriads that have gone,
The countless myriads that are coming on,
Are all immortal? Ah! the thought recoils
From that vast crowd of living, and sinks down.
The countless myriads that are coming on,
Are all immortal? Ah! the thought recoils
From that vast crowd of living, and sinks down.
But what if all in all be now and here?
The rest, illusions shaped by hope or fear,—
And thou and I, with all our life and love,
End like this insect that is fluttering near?
The rest, illusions shaped by hope or fear,—
And thou and I, with all our life and love,
End like this insect that is fluttering near?
239
If Virtue be a cheat, a child to soothe,
And Heaven a lie, invented but in ruth,
To hide the horror of eternal death,—
Knowing that madness would be born of Truth?
And Heaven a lie, invented but in ruth,
To hide the horror of eternal death,—
Knowing that madness would be born of Truth?
Who knows? who knows? Since God hath shut the door
That opens out into the waste before,
Vainly we peep and pry, vainly we talk,
And vain is all our logic and our lore.
That opens out into the waste before,
Vainly we peep and pry, vainly we talk,
And vain is all our logic and our lore.
What will be, will be, though we laugh or weep;
Love is the happy dream of Life's brief sleep.
And we shall wake at last, and know—or else
In death's kind arms find slumber—dreamless—deep.
Love is the happy dream of Life's brief sleep.
And we shall wake at last, and know—or else
In death's kind arms find slumber—dreamless—deep.
Ah, love! what then is left to us but Trust
That somewhat in us shall survive our dust;
That heaven shall be at last—and life and love
Be purified of all earth's dregs and must?
That somewhat in us shall survive our dust;
That heaven shall be at last—and life and love
Be purified of all earth's dregs and must?
Then let our life and thought no more be vext
By this dark problem—nor our hearts perplext
To solve the secret that torments us here;—
Love is earth's heaven—and we will wait the next.
By this dark problem—nor our hearts perplext
To solve the secret that torments us here;—
Love is earth's heaven—and we will wait the next.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |