THE COLOURING OF HAPPINESS.
My heart is full of prayer and praise to-day,
So beautiful the whole world seems to me!
I know the morn has dawned as is its wont,
I know the breeze comes on no lighter wing,
I know the brook chimed yesterday that same
Melodious call to my unanswering thought;
But I look forth with new created eyes,
And soul and sense seem linked and thrill alike,
And things familiar have unusual grown,
Taking my spirit with a fair surprise!
So beautiful the whole world seems to me!
I know the morn has dawned as is its wont,
I know the breeze comes on no lighter wing,
I know the brook chimed yesterday that same
Melodious call to my unanswering thought;
But I look forth with new created eyes,
And soul and sense seem linked and thrill alike,
And things familiar have unusual grown,
Taking my spirit with a fair surprise!
But yesterday, and life seemed tented round
With idle sadness. Not a bird sang out
But with a mournful meaning; not a cloud,
And there were many, but in flitting past
Trailed somewhat of its darkness o'er my heart,
And loitering, half-becalmed, unfreighted all,
Went by the Heaven-bound hours.
But oh! to-day
Lie all harmonious and lovely things
Close to my spirit, and awhile it seems
As if the blue sky were enough of Heaven!
My thoughts are like tense chords that give their music
At a chance breath; a thousand delicate hands
Are harping on my soul! no sight, no sound
But stirs me to the keenest sense of pleasure—
Be it no more than the wind's cautious tread,
The swaying of a shadow, or a bough,
Or a dove's flight across the silent sky.
With idle sadness. Not a bird sang out
But with a mournful meaning; not a cloud,
And there were many, but in flitting past
Trailed somewhat of its darkness o'er my heart,
And loitering, half-becalmed, unfreighted all,
Went by the Heaven-bound hours.
But oh! to-day
Lie all harmonious and lovely things
Close to my spirit, and awhile it seems
As if the blue sky were enough of Heaven!
My thoughts are like tense chords that give their music
At a chance breath; a thousand delicate hands
Are harping on my soul! no sight, no sound
But stirs me to the keenest sense of pleasure—
Be it no more than the wind's cautious tread,
The swaying of a shadow, or a bough,
Or a dove's flight across the silent sky.
Oh, in this sunbright sabbath of the heart,
How many a prayer puts on the guise of thought,
An angel unconfessed! Its rapid feet,
That leave no print on memory's sands, tread not
Less surely their bright path than choral hymns
And litanies. I know the praise of worlds,
And the soul's unvoiced homage, both arise
Distinctly to His ear who holds all nature
Pavilioned by His presence; who has fashioned
With an impartial care, alike the star
That keeps unpiloted its airy circle,
And the sun-quickened germ, or the poor moss
The building swallow plucks to line her nest.
How many a prayer puts on the guise of thought,
An angel unconfessed! Its rapid feet,
That leave no print on memory's sands, tread not
Less surely their bright path than choral hymns
And litanies. I know the praise of worlds,
And the soul's unvoiced homage, both arise
Distinctly to His ear who holds all nature
Pavilioned by His presence; who has fashioned
With an impartial care, alike the star
That keeps unpiloted its airy circle,
And the sun-quickened germ, or the poor moss
The building swallow plucks to line her nest.