4510550Poems — Christmas MorningMartha A. Smith

CHRISTMAS MORNING.
1879.


This lonely feeling of isolation
Creeps like the icy hand of Death
Around me,—leaving desolation,
Chilling soul and breaking health.

I can not brighten, by my staying
In this sad, unhappy home,
One single life by my remaining,
Then let me fly, and be alone.

He who knoweth the sorrowful anguish
Of this aching, lonely heart,
Will bear me onward, help to banish,
When I tear myself apart.

This vain world is fleeting, surely,
I feel it so, as days pass o'er;
And I know I'm fading slowly
Into the vast Forevermore.

Yet no sad'ning thoughts steal ever,
Nor do I bewail the call,
When I bid farewell forever,
And laid within my narrow wall.

Thoughts of death ne'er cause a shiver,
That once so used to chill my frame.
I only pray that God deliver
Me from this fearful mortal pain.

This living sorrow without ending,
Crushing life,—no hope remain,—
Is far more fearful to the living
Than death; for then we know no pain.

Ere the damps of death close o'er us,—
Cradled in our narrow bed,—
With cold hands clasp'd across the bosom,
Heartaches gone when we are dead.

Let us strive, ere this last parting,
To right all wrongs ere yet too late;
By securing to our darlings
Equal shares in our estate.

Don't you see the shadow ever
Deep'ning to a darker day,
Unless we burst these clouds asunder,
And let them find a sunny ray?

All bright children of our being,
Loving us as well they do,—
Can you not see it is a duty
I am trying to impress on you?

Only a little while here longer
Either you or I can stay:
Try from this dark Christmas morning,
To cheer their lives from this dark day.