 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
STANZAS.
Nay, fathom not Time's rushing stream
When swollen its tide with tears,
And count not over faded dream
To measure out thy years.
When swollen its tide with tears,
And count not over faded dream
To measure out thy years.
O! even for the darkest lot
Hath life some blessed thing,
As earth holds not the sterile spot
Where verdure may not spring.
Hath life some blessed thing,
328
Where verdure may not spring.
But we in bitter discontent
The wayside blossom spurn,
And for some bright and far-off star
With wild, vain longings yearn.
The wayside blossom spurn,
And for some bright and far-off star
With wild, vain longings yearn.
When sunbeams cross our pathway dark,
We joy not in their ray,
But set a dial up to mark
How swift they pass away.
We joy not in their ray,
But set a dial up to mark
How swift they pass away.
Yet would we take the joy that is,
Nor dream of what might be;
Time could be meted out by bliss,
Not marked by misery.
Nor dream of what might be;
Time could be meted out by bliss,
Not marked by misery.
For even in our daily paths,
With thorns and brambles strown,
The seeds of many an Eden flower
By angel hands are sown.
With thorns and brambles strown,
The seeds of many an Eden flower
By angel hands are sown.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |