Of petty souls whose joy is defamation,
Of malice, envy, cruelty, and greed
Each day supplies its sickening revelation,
And makes imperative my spirit's need
To sleep and to forget.
Let others bravely plan for death's to-morrow,
And crave fresh progress toward a higher goal!
Appalled by Earth's long tragedy of sorrow,
I humbly ask one favor for my soul,
When this life's sun is set,—
To sleep and to forget.
IN SILENCE
She sees our faces bright and gay,
Our moving lips, our laughing eyes,
But scarce a word of what we say
Can pass the zone that round her lies;—
A zone of stillness,—strange, profound,
Invisible to mortal eye,
Upon whose verge the waves of sound
In muffled murmurs break and die.
Across that silent void she strains
To catch at least some wingèd word,
And, though she fails, still smiles and feigns
The poor pretence of having heard.
That smile! Its pathos wrings the heart
Of many a friend, who yet conceals
The tears that from his eyelids start,
The grief and pity that he feels.
And she, aware of our distress,
And sadly conscious of her own,
Still bravely speaks, nor dares confess
That our real meaning is unknown.
What rapture, when the closing door
Shuts out the world and gives release,
And on her quivering nerves once more
Descends the benison of peace!
No longer forced to dimly read
Men's meanings from their lips and looks,
Her greatest joy, her only need
The sweet companionship of books!