 | Poems by James Rhoades |  |
135
XXI.
[How is it that so oft it sweeter seems]
How is it that so oft it sweeter seemsTo mourn lost bliss than win what yet may be,
To sink absorb'd in melancholy dreams
Far sweeter than to feast on mirth and glee,
And solitude than all gay company,
And winter, with her wind, than summer's beams,
And dead cold ice than the dear living streams,
And fallen leaves than green leaves on the tree?—
Is Sorrow in herself a thing divine,
That we should take her for our utmost goal?
Or like a star's soft reflex on the soul
Is it her semblance, not herself, doth shine?
Or does she lie far past our human sight,
Strange as man's doom, and deep as day or night?
| Poems by James Rhoades | |