Here, where still waiting, dreaming,
For some ideal Life,
The young heart all unconscious
Had entered on the strife.
See how this page is blotted:
What—could those tears be mine?
How coolly I can read you,
Each blurred and trembling line.
Now I can reason calmly,
And, looking back again,
Can see divinest meaning
Threading each separate pain.
Here strong resolve—how broken;
Rash hope, and foolish fear,
And prayers, which God in pity
Refused to grant or hear.
Nay—I will turn the pages
To where the tale is told
Of how a dawn diviner
Flushed the dark clouds with gold.
And see, that light has gilded
The story—nor shall set;
And, though in mist and shadow,
You know I see it yet.
Here—well, it does not matter,
I promised to read all;
I know not why I falter,
Or why my tears should fall;
You see each grief is noted;
Yet it was better so—
I can rejoice to-day—the pain
Was over, long ago.
I read—my voice is failing,
But you can understand
How the heart beat that guided
This weak and trembling hand.
Pass over that long struggle,
Read where the comfort came,
Where the first time is written
Within the book your name.