Perhaps the dearest hopes of earth,
Our idols shattered, merest clay;
Long years of toil, that knew no girth,
By lightest breeze are swept away.
Sometimes.
Our idols shattered, merest clay;
Long years of toil, that knew no girth,
By lightest breeze are swept away.
Sometimes.
We wonder if He knew or cared?
It seems so to our breaking hearts,
Mocking the life that He hath spared.
Thinking naught of that greater part.
Sometimes.
It seems so to our breaking hearts,
Mocking the life that He hath spared.
Thinking naught of that greater part.
Sometimes.
The Poet.
The poet takes his text from nature,
And laughs and sings in joyous tone,
Or weeps and sighs with heart in tune
For every smile or patient moan.
The sun not always warmly shines,
Nor trees, nor grasses put forth leaves;
Clouds shadow, rains fall, warm or chill,
And poet spirit smiles or grieves.
And laughs and sings in joyous tone,
Or weeps and sighs with heart in tune
For every smile or patient moan.
The sun not always warmly shines,
Nor trees, nor grasses put forth leaves;
Clouds shadow, rains fall, warm or chill,
And poet spirit smiles or grieves.
—71—
