| |
| AS on the gauzy wings of fancy flying | |
| From some far orb I track our watery sphere, | |
| Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying, | |
| The silvered globule seems a glistening tear. | |
| |
| But Nature lends her mirror of illusion | 5 |
| To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed eyes, | |
| And misty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion | |
| The wintry landscape and the summer skies. | |
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| So when the iron portal shuts behind us, | |
| And life forgets us in its noise and whirl, | 10 |
| Visions that shunned the glaring noonday find us, | |
| And glimmering starlight shows the gates of pearl. | |
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| I come not here your morning hour to sadden, | |
| A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,— | |
| I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden | 15 |
| This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh. | |
| |
| If word of mine another’s gloom has brightened, | |
| Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message came; | |
| If hand of mine another’s task has lightened, | |
| It felt the guidance that it dares not claim. | 20 |
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| But, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers, | |
| These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil’s release; | |
| These feebler pulses bid me leave to others | |
| The tasks once welcome; evening asks for peace. | |
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| Time claims his tribute; silence now is golden; | 25 |
| Let me not vex the too long suffering lyre; | |
| Though to your love untiring still beholden, | |
| The curfew tells me—cover up the fire. | |
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