Verse > Anthologies > George Willis Cooke, ed. > The Poets of Transcendentalism: An Anthology
George Willis Cooke, comp.  The Poets of Transcendentalism: An Anthology.  1903.
All ’s Well
By David Atwood Wasson (1823–1887)
SWEET-VOICÈD Hope, thy fine discourse
  Foretold not half life’s good to me;
Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force
  To show how sweet it is to be!
    Thy witching dream        5
    And pictured scheme
To match the fact still want the power;
    Thy promise brave
    From birth to grave
Life’s bloom may beggar in an hour.        10
Ask and receive,—’t is sweetly said;
  Yet what to plead for know I not;
For Wish is worsted, Hope o’ersped,
  And aye to thanks returns my thought.
    If I would pray,        15
    I ’ve naught to say
But this, that God may be God still,
    For Him to live
    Is still to give,
And sweeter than my wish His will.        20
O wealth of life beyond all bound!
  Eternity each moment given!
What plummet may the Present sound?
  Who promises a future heaven?
    Or glad, or grieved,        25
    Oppressed, relieved,
In blackest night, or brightest day,
    Still pours the flood
    Of golden good,
And more than heart-full fills me aye.        30
My wealth is common; I possess
  No petty province, but the whole;
What ’s mine alone is mine far less
  Than treasure shared by every soul.
    Talk not of store        35
    Millions or more,—
Of values which the purse may hold,—
    But this divine!
    I own the mine
Whose grains outweigh a planet’s gold.        40
I have a stake in every star,
  In every beam that fills the day;
All hearts of men my coffers are,
  My ores arterial tides convey;
    The fields, the skies,        45
    The sweet replies
Of thought to thought are my gold-dust,—
    The oaks, the brooks,
    And speaking looks
Of lovers’ faith and friendship’s trust.        50
Life’s youngest tides joy-brimming flow
  For him who lives above all years,
Who all-immortal makes the Now,
  And is not ta’en in Time’s arrears;
    His life ’s a hymn        55
    The seraphim
Might hark to hear or help to sing,
    And to his soul
    The boundless whole
Its bounty all doth daily bring.        60
“All time is mine,” the sky-soul saith;
  “The wealth I am, must thou become;
Richer and richer, breath by breath,—
  Immortal gain, immortal room!”
    And since all his        65
    Mine also is,
Life’s gift outruns my fancies far,
    And drowns the dream
    In larger stream,
As morning drinks the morning-star.        70

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