 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
33
TO NATURE.
Mother, when the light is dead,
And the night-throngs round us thicken,
Are there other joys instead,
Which the holy dark must quicken?
And the night-throngs round us thicken,
Are there other joys instead,
Which the holy dark must quicken?
Is there any gift of thine
That may help the heart from madness?
Or must life like day decline
From sadness unto sadness?
That may help the heart from madness?
Or must life like day decline
From sadness unto sadness?
Youth was sweet, and childhood sweeter:
But man's strength is won with strife;
Growth is surely meet, but meeter
Quaffing of the springs of life:
But man's strength is won with strife;
Growth is surely meet, but meeter
Quaffing of the springs of life:
34
Hitherto thy gifts we know,
All so dear, but ah! so dying:
Wilt thou give us, ere we go,
Joy that hath no wings for flying?
All so dear, but ah! so dying:
Wilt thou give us, ere we go,
Joy that hath no wings for flying?
Lo! 'tis thou, and not another,
From whose life our lips have breath:
Could'st thou send us, oh! our mother,
Empty to the doors of Death?
From whose life our lips have breath:
Could'st thou send us, oh! our mother,
Empty to the doors of Death?
Nay, nor shall the night disarm us
Of our last desire and best;
Thou hast yet one gift to charm us—
Is it Rest, is it Rest?
Of our last desire and best;
Thou hast yet one gift to charm us—
Is it Rest, is it Rest?
| Poems by James Rhoades | |