| |
| THERE is much shadow on this sunlit earth, | |
| And sorrow lingers deep in laughing eyes, | |
| Sad echoes tremble mid glad peals of mirth, | |
| Low wailings whisper through rich melodies. | |
| |
| You cannot say of any one you know, | 5 |
| “I see his life, I know him very blest.” | |
| For would he tell you of the canker woe | |
| That preys upon his being unconfessed? | |
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| You cannot think in any festive place | |
| Of mirth and pastime and smiles flashed on all | 10 |
| There is no mimic weary of his face, | |
| No actor longing for the curtain’s fall. | |
| |
| Among the dancers cruel spectres float | |
| And chill their victims with a dull distress, | |
| And, sighing through the measure’s clearest note, | 15 |
| Weird voices murmur, full of bitterness. | |
| |
| Old sorrows fester on in aching hearts, | |
| New sorrows rack them with hot spasm pain; | |
| Who knows? The ball-room actors play their parts, | |
| And we smile with them and discern no strain. | 20 |
| |
| If one should say “This is a doubtful word, | |
| That men so sorrowing can cheat our sense” | |
| Yet let him own when grief his soul has stirred | |
| He has been merry with gay eloquence. | |
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| And that is best. For what would it avail | 25 |
| If he should say “Lo, I am very sad” | |
| To idle hearers, though they heard his tale | |
| And ceased a little moment to be glad? | |
| |
| But each heart keeps its sorrow for its own | |
| Nor bares its wound to the chill general gaze; | 30 |
| Men laugh together … if they weep alone: | |
| But sorrow walks in all the wide world’s ways. | |
| |
| What, will you fly? her step is very fleet, | |
| Her freezing touch will seize you unawares. | |
| Look on her, never grovel at her feet, | 35 |
| For he is hers for ever who despairs. | |
| |
| Wait calmly; as she waits on that old plain, | |
| The stony smiler on the desert sand, | |
| Smiling upon old pride’s long-cycled wane, | |
| Smiling unchanged upon a saddened land. | 40 |
| |
| She saw the glories of the ancient days, | |
| She ever sees the tombs of buried kings, | |
| She has not lost the quiet of her gaze | |
| Looking a silence deep with solemn things. | |
| |
| The great sand-surges press upon her close, | 45 |
| She in eternal calm looks out above— | |
| And who shall look upon a waste of woes | |
| With such grand patience which no change may move? | |
| |
| Yet wait; let the great desert clouds whirl by, | |
| And sunlight once more floods upon the plain. | 50 |
| Yet wait; the foolish leaf that flies the blast | |
| Grows never greenly on the bough again. | |
| |
| Yet wait; for sorrow’s self is not all sad: | |
| Put forth your hand and draw her veil aside; | |
| Behold, what secret of masked smiles she had, | 55 |
| What royal lovegifts in one cloked hand hide. | |
| |
| You will not say those were your saddest years, | |
| In which you sorrowed. Void is worse than pain. | |
| And many a rich bloom grows because of tears; | |
| And we see Heaven’s lights more when our lights wane. | 60 |
| |
| Ah! who knows what is ill from what is well? | |
| And we, who see no more than we are shown | |
| Of others’ hearts, can we so much as tell | |
| If grief or joy be chiefest in our own? | |
| |
| For sunlight gleams upon this shadowed earth, | 65 |
| Sunlight and shadow waver to and fro, | |
| And sadness echoes in the voice of mirth, | |
| And music murmurs through the wail of woe. | |
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