The shadow of death, and tears, and gloom
Coming to me when roses bloom?
Will the beautiful days I long for so
Hold like your song a strain of woe?
What is the secret you hide from me
O herald of days that are to be?
And why was that desolate minor moan
Lurking under your gladdest tone?
WORTH LIVING
I know not what the future may hold,
Or how to others it seems,
But I know my skies have held more gold
Than I used to find in my dreams.
Though the whole world sings of hopes death chilled,
In grateful truth I say,
That my best hopes have been fulfilled,
And more than fulfilled to-day.
Though oft my arrow I aim at the sun
To see it fall into the sand,
Yet just as often some work I have done
Is better than I have planned.
I do not always grasp the pleasure
For which I reach, maybe;
But quite as frequently over-measure
Is given by joy to me.
To-morrow may bring a grief behind it
That will thoroughly change my mood;
But we only can speak of a thing as we find it—
And I have found life good.
MORE FORTUNATE
I hold that life more fortunate by far
That sits with its sweet memories alone
And cherishes a joy for ever flown
Beyond the reach of accident to mar.
(Some joy that was extinguished like a star)
Than that which makes the prize so much its own
That its poor commonplacenesses are shown;
(Which in all things, when viewed too closely, are.)