SONG. THERE is a light in thy blue eyes, Like an eternal morn, A glorious freshness of the skies, That dulls not, nor is worn, Though all earth's flitting shadows try Its sunny immortality. From thee I learn all gentleness, From thee I learn all truth; And, from thy brimming heart's excess, My spirit garners youth, Gleaning, in harvest-hours like this, Ripe winter-stores of golden bliss. 1841. O, happy soul! O, happy heart! That thus can linger all apart Within so charmed a shrine, While the old weary earth turns round IN SADNESS. THERE is not in this life of ours One bliss unmixed with fears; The hope that wakes our deepest powers A face of sadness wears, And the dew that showers our dearest flowers Is the bitter dew of tears. Fame waiteth long, and lingereth And evermore the shadow Death That underneath the laurel-wreath Should be a wreath of thorns. The laurel-leaves are cool and green, But the thorns are hot and sharp; Lean Hunger grins and stares between The poet and his harp, Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have been, Grim Want thrusts in the warp. And if, beyond this darksome clime, That keeps unjarred the blissful chime Of its golden infancy, – Where the harvest-time of faith sublime Not always is to be; Yet would the true soul rather choose A home where sorrow is, Than in a sated peace to lose Its life's supremest bliss, The rainbow hues that bend profuse O'er cloudy spheres like this, That makes us fain strong hearts to gain, To do and to endure. High natures must be thunder-scarred With many a searing wrong; From mother Sorrow's breasts the bard Sucks gifts of deepest song; Nor all unmarred with struggles hard Dear Patience, too, is born of woe, Patience, that opes the gate Wherethrough the soul of man must go Up to each nobler state, Whose voice's flow so meek and low Smooths the bent brows of Fate. |