 | Voices from the Lakes, and Other Poems |  |
165
HEART-STRUGGLES.
I know I must be patient, so I try
To say, His holy will, not mine, be done!
But if in mercy I might only die,
And hide away in darkness from the sun,
Which hurts me with its hot and garish light,
I should be happy; for I do but sigh
To bid the world a long and last good night
Before another morrow hath begun;
To front the sad and woeful coming years,
'Tis this unseals the fountain of my tears.
To say, His holy will, not mine, be done!
But if in mercy I might only die,
And hide away in darkness from the sun,
Which hurts me with its hot and garish light,
I should be happy; for I do but sigh
To bid the world a long and last good night
Before another morrow hath begun;
To front the sad and woeful coming years,
'Tis this unseals the fountain of my tears.
'Tis this I feel so hard—so hard to bear,
To die were easy, yea, to die were gain;
To walk the valley, with His presence near,
This were no bitterness—'twere bliss, not pain,
Smiling I'd creep into my lowly bed,
And say to all “Farewell,” without a tear.
But to live on, when dearest hopes are dead,
To gather up life's broken threads again,
When Death on Love, with cruel foot hath trod,
This, this is bitter, O my God, my God!”
To die were easy, yea, to die were gain;
To walk the valley, with His presence near,
This were no bitterness—'twere bliss, not pain,
Smiling I'd creep into my lowly bed,
And say to all “Farewell,” without a tear.
166
To gather up life's broken threads again,
When Death on Love, with cruel foot hath trod,
This, this is bitter, O my God, my God!”
| Voices from the Lakes, and Other Poems | |