Classic Poem

All hearts have once their songs,
Though they be dead.
Each spirit has its wrongs—
There is no eye but longs
For something fled.

There is no yesterday
In time's dim flight,
To which fond thoughts would stray,
That doth not send its ray
Through one dark night.

To-morrow can not be
Till this to-day
Hath faded, and we see
Beyond the darkened lea,
The dawning gray.

The river, deep and wide,
Returns no more
To fret the mountain side
In rivulets; the tide
Seeks still the shore.

Nor can the fruit that bends
The branches, be,
Again, the bloom that lends
The spring its charm, and tends
Its infancy.

The rose, once blown, folds not
To bud anew;
The cradle is forgot—
Its blushing heart hath caught
The falling dew.

The waving grain, that burns
On hills of gold,
Still for the sickle yearns;
The sporting lamb soon turns
To seek the fold.

The bird flies from the nest
With half fledg'd wing—
Flies to world's unrest,
And tortures her wild breast
For songs to sing.

The great up-heaving sea
That ebbs and flows,
Is troubled constantly
With some deep mystery
That no man knows.

The sorrow burdened sound
Of hidden grief
Comes from the waves that bound
And break as though they found,
At last, relief.

The moveless mountain stands
Unchanged as fate,
Snow-capped by unseen hands
And silent as the sands
Made desolate.

Thus ages roll, when lo!
With sudden din,
Breaks forth the flaming woe
That none, save God, could know
Had slept within.

Like some great silence, sealed
To last for aye;
The sky's far concave shield,
With quiet stars afield,
Spreads out on high.

One small white cloud appears
And floats alone;
The storm its mountain rears,
The dark earth trembling hears
The thunder's tone.

The lightning's molten chain
Drops from the cloud.
The storm speeds on the plain,
The fierce wind drives the rain,
With anger loud.

The mountain's rugged face
Lit by the glare,
Frowns for a moment's space,
While bolts, descending, trace
Their records there.

The yellow streams awake
Like beasts of prey,
With tawny manes that shake,
And hollow roars that make
The rocks give way.

Down to the vale they rush;
Their loud voiced hymn
Of death goes up, they crush
And break the river's hush
With specters grim.

But soon the jingling rill
The storm hath fed,
Sounds on the dripping hill,
Nor dreams that it might fill
Its deep washed bed.

On green-leaved dome and wall
Of forest deep
The moon's white lances fall,
And sweetly over all
Soft murmurs creep.

Now frightened silence steals
Through mists below;
Down by the stream she kneels,
To bind her broken seals
Upon its flow.

Far off the storm hath gone—
The stars grow dim;
The sky turns pale and wan
The earth against the dawn
Leans her dark rim.

The sun will rise; the grass
Will drink his ray:
The quiet stream, like glass,
Will picture clouds that pass,
The livelong day.

Oh! great world's great unrest
That keeps in thrall
All nature, who had guessed,
That one small human breast
Could hold it all?

To bud, to bloom, and die,
This is the sum.
In vain our souls may cry
There is no answer why—
No more will come.

Between two nights our day
Of life is cast;
The morning flies, and soon
We reach the burning noon,
And night comes fast.

And shall we then lose heart?
Nay, God forbid!
Grasp sword, grasp helm and chart—
Strain sail, the world of art
Is deeply hid.

Strive, strive while life is here;
While yet the eye
May pierce the heavens clear,
And see green hills appear
In worlds on high.

One day—enough—but one,
Who would have more?
One journey of the sun;
Press on till day be done,
With hope before.

All hearts have once their songs
Though they be dead;
All souls have known their wrongs—
There is no eye but longs
For something fled.