[SUNSHINE AND SHADOW.]
Life has its shadows, as well as its sun;
Its lights and its shades, all twined together.
I tried to single them out, one by one,
Single and count them, determining whether
There was less blue than there was gray,
And more of the deep night than of the day.
But dear me, dear me, my task's but begun,
And I am not half way into the sun.
For the longer I look on the bright side of earth,
The more of the beautiful do I discover;
And really, I never knew what life was worth
Till I searched the wide storehouse of happiness over.
It is filled from the cellar well up to the skies,
With things meant to gladden the heart and the eyes.
The doors are unlocked, you can enter each room,
That lies like a beautiful garden in bloom.
Yet life has its shadow, as well as its sun;
Earth has its storehouse of joy and of sorrow.
But the first is so wide-and my task's but begun
That the last must be left for a far distant morrow.
I will count up the blessings God gave in a row,
But dear me! when I get through them,
I know I shall have little time left for the rest,
For life is a swift-flowing river at best.
[WHATEVER IS--IS BEST.]
I know as my life grows older,
And mine eyes have clearer sight--
That under each rank Wrong, somewhere
There lies the root of Right;
That each sorrow has its purpose--
By the sorrowing oft unguessed,
But as sure as the Sun brings morning,
Whatever is--is best.
I know that each sinful action,
As sure as the night brings shade,
Is sometime, somewhere punished,
Tho' the hour be long delayed.
I know that the soul is aided
Sometimes by the heart's unrest,
And to grow means often to suffer--
But whatever is--is best.
I know there are no errors,
In the great Eternal plan,
And all things work together
For the final good of man.
And I know when my soul speeds onward
In its grand Eternal quest,
I shall say, as I look back earthward,
Whatever is--is best.
[TRANSPLANTED.]
Where the grim old "Mount of Lamentation"
Lifts up its summit like some great dome,
I list for the voices of Inspiration
That rang o'er the meadows and hills of home.
I catch sweet sounds, but I am not near them,
There are vast, vague oceans between us rolled;
Or it may be my heart is too full to hear them
With the eager ear that it lent of old.