 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
228
TO J. S.
“Better is the sight of the eye than the wandering of the desire.”—
6 Ecclesiastes, ix.
I yield thee unto higher spheres,
I bend my head and say, “Thy will
Not mine be done,” though bitter tears
The while my eyelids fill.
I bend my head and say, “Thy will
Not mine be done,” though bitter tears
The while my eyelids fill.
I know thou hast escaped the blight
That wilts us here, and entered now
To perfect day—though in the night
Bereft of thee we bow.
That wilts us here, and entered now
To perfect day—though in the night
Bereft of thee we bow.
And yet thy little sunny life
Was beautiful as it was brief;
It was not vexed by pain or strife,
It knew but little grief.
Was beautiful as it was brief;
It was not vexed by pain or strife,
It knew but little grief.
229
The sunshine from our house is gone,
And from our hearts their peace and joy;
We feel so terribly alone
Without thee—dearest boy!
And from our hearts their peace and joy;
We feel so terribly alone
Without thee—dearest boy!
Thou mad'st us feel how very fair
God's earth could be, and taught us love;
And in life's tapestry of care
A golden figure wove.
God's earth could be, and taught us love;
And in life's tapestry of care
A golden figure wove.
Brave as we will our hearts to bear,
Grief will not wholly be denied;
The ineffectual dykes we rear
Go down before its tide.
Grief will not wholly be denied;
The ineffectual dykes we rear
Go down before its tide.
We lie all prostrate—cannot feel
God's love—we only cry aloud,
“Oh, God! oh, God!” for all things reel,
And God hides in a cloud.
God's love—we only cry aloud,
“Oh, God! oh, God!” for all things reel,
And God hides in a cloud.
230
We blindly wail, for we are maimed
Beyond repair, until at last
He lifts us up—all bleeding, lamed,
And shattered by the blast.
Beyond repair, until at last
He lifts us up—all bleeding, lamed,
And shattered by the blast.
He asks, “And would you wish him back,
Whom I have taken to my joy,—
Drag downward to Life's narrow track
Your little spirit boy?”
Whom I have taken to my joy,—
Drag downward to Life's narrow track
Your little spirit boy?”
“No! no!” the spirit makes reply—
“Not back to earthly chance and pain;”
“Yet ah!” the shattered senses cry,
“Would he were here again.”
“Not back to earthly chance and pain;”
“Yet ah!” the shattered senses cry,
“Would he were here again.”
He was so meshed within our love
That all our heart strings bleeding lie,
And all fond hopes we round him wove
Are now but agony.
That all our heart strings bleeding lie,
And all fond hopes we round him wove
Are now but agony.
231
Yet let us suffer—he is freed,
And on our tears a bridge of light
Is built by God, his steps to lead
To joys beyond our sight.
And on our tears a bridge of light
Is built by God, his steps to lead
To joys beyond our sight.
Rome, Dec. 1853.
| Poems by William W. Story | |