Part 9 (1/2)

THE LIFE OF EARTH

The life of earth, how full of pain, Which greets us on our day of birth, Nor leaves us while we yet retain The life of earth.

There is a shadow on our mirth, Our sun is blotted out with rain, And all our joys are little worth.

Yet oh, when life begins to wane, And we must sail the doubtful firth, How wild the longing to regain The life of earth!

GOLDEN DREAM

Golden dream of summer morn, By a well-remembered stream In the land where I was born, Golden dream!

Ripples, by the glancing beam Lightly kissed in playful scorn, Meadows moist with sunlit steam.

When I lift my eyelids worn Like a fair mirage you seem, In the winter dawn forlorn, Golden dream!

TEARS

Mourn that which will not come again, The joy, the strength of early years.

Bow down thy head, and let thy tears Water the grave where hope lies slain.

For tears are like a summer rain, To murmur in a mourner's ears, To soften all the field of fears, To moisten valleys parched with pain.

And though thy tears will not awake What lies beneath of young or fair And sleeps so sound it draws no breath, Yet, watered thus, the sod may break In flowers which sweeten all the air, And fill with life the place of death.

THE HOUSE OF SLEEP

When we have laid aside our last endeavour, And said farewell to one or two that weep, And issued from the house of life for ever, To find a lodging in the house of sleep--

With eyes fast shut, in sunless chambers lying, With folded arms unmoved upon the breast, Beyond the noise of sorrow and of crying, Beyond the dread of dreaming, shall we rest?

Or shall there come at last desire of waking, To walk again on hillsides that we know, When sunrise through the cold white mist is breaking, Or in the stillness of the after-glow?

Shall there be yearning for the sound of voices, The sight of faces, and the touch of hands, The will that works, the spirit that rejoices, The heart that feels, the mind that understands?

Shall dreams and memories crowding from the distance, Shall ghosts of old ambition or of mirth, Create for us a shadow of existence, A dim reflection of the life of earth?

And being dead, and powerless to recover The substance of the show whereon we gaze, Shall we be likened to the hapless lover, Who broods upon the unreturning days?

Not so: for we have known how swift to perish Is man's delight when youth and health take wing, Until the winter leaves him nought to cherish But recollections of a vanished spring.

Dream as we may, desire of life shall never Disturb our slumbers in the house of sleep.

Yet oh, to think we may not greet for ever The one or two that, when we leave them, weep!