 | The silver bridge and other poems |  |
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TIME'S LOSSES.
If some kind power, when our youth is ended,
And life's first freshness lost in languid noon,
Should stay awhile the doom by Fate intended,
And grant us pityingly one precious boon,—
And life's first freshness lost in languid noon,
Should stay awhile the doom by Fate intended,
And grant us pityingly one precious boon,—
Saying, “With thwartings, bitterness and trial,
Your toilsome days thus far have been oppressed;
Choose now some blessing, fearing no denial,
To light and charm and beautify the rest”—
Your toilsome days thus far have been oppressed;
Choose now some blessing, fearing no denial,
To light and charm and beautify the rest”—
What should we ask? the prize of young ambition?
Fame, power, wealth, and gifts of priceless cost?
Ah, no—our souls would utter the petition—
“Give us, oh, only give us back our lost!
Fame, power, wealth, and gifts of priceless cost?
Ah, no—our souls would utter the petition—
“Give us, oh, only give us back our lost!
“No visioned bliss, no pleasure new and splendid,
No lofty joy by shadow all uncrossed.
No fresh delight undreamed-of, heaven-descended,—
Only our own—the treasures we have lost.”
No lofty joy by shadow all uncrossed.
No fresh delight undreamed-of, heaven-descended,—
Only our own—the treasures we have lost.”
For wearied out with strife and glare and clamor,
In time we grow more wise, and clearer-eyed,
No more beguiled by dreams, nor charmed by glamour,
We dread the new, and love the known, the tried.
In time we grow more wise, and clearer-eyed,
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We dread the new, and love the known, the tried.
And ev'n those lives which hold the saddest story,
Whose griefs have been most deep, whose joys most few,
Have had their raptures, sweet and transitory,
Their rosy summer-hours of bloom and dew.
Whose griefs have been most deep, whose joys most few,
Have had their raptures, sweet and transitory,
Their rosy summer-hours of bloom and dew.
Ah, what a lovely group would gather round us,
Could we but have our vanished back again!
The heart unspoiled, the strength and hope which crowned us,
The bounteous life, the ignorance of pain,—
Could we but have our vanished back again!
The heart unspoiled, the strength and hope which crowned us,
The bounteous life, the ignorance of pain,—
The plans for noble lives, that earth thereafter
Might be more pure; the touch of love's warm lip
And saving hand; the sound of childish laughter,
The peace of home, the joy of comradeship—
Might be more pure; the touch of love's warm lip
And saving hand; the sound of childish laughter,
The peace of home, the joy of comradeship—
The innocence, the ready faith in others,
The sweet, spontaneous earnestness and truth,
Warm clasps of friends, the tender eyes of mothers,
And all the sweet inheritance of youth!
The sweet, spontaneous earnestness and truth,
Warm clasps of friends, the tender eyes of mothers,
And all the sweet inheritance of youth!
We had them all—and now that they have left us,
We count them carefully and see their worth,
Knowing that time and fortune have bereft us
Of all the fairest, dearest things on earth.
We count them carefully and see their worth,
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Of all the fairest, dearest things on earth.
Ah yes! when on our hearts the years are pressing,
And all our flower-plats are touched with frost,
We ask no more some new untasted blessing,
But only sigh, “Oh, give us back our lost!”
And all our flower-plats are touched with frost,
We ask no more some new untasted blessing,
But only sigh, “Oh, give us back our lost!”
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