Classic Poem

There are no tears to shed; the heart is dry,
And the thin leaves of hope fall from the bough,
Rustling and sere—all winter in the tree.
Some smarting pain, some swiftly shooting ill,
Needless alarm or interrupted fear,
Chances and changes, and the soul's despair,
All we can suffer—all that we deplore
Were happier far than these unmoving hours,
When I sit silent on the sandy shore,
Silent, uncomforted, hapless, and lone.
Why are ye bright, why are ye sunny, days,
With the blue sky that arches over all,
And the sweet wind that with a breath of love
Touches the golden hilltops till they smile?
I murmur from my soul its cherished thoughts,
All I have known or suffered; and I ask
The friends I love to come and sit with me,
And call to memory for their cheerful smiles.
They cannot answer me; no visions rise;
And in such ebbing hours life passes as
A faint and burdened man, whose aching feet
Support him tottering o'er the sandy wastes
In the unlidded blaze of Afric's eye.
Yet let me suffer with a patient thought;
'T is but another turning of the tide
That from the far-off ocean of our fate
So slowly murmurs through its rock-bound cave.
Oh, little feel the gay, remorseless crowd,
Intent on pleasures, of the poet's care;
The path he treads must be by them untrod;
His destiny a veil, his heart—unsealed;
While all around him swims dancing in joy,
And smiling faces and soft azure skies,
Tantalus-like that he shall never touch,
Look in across the dead sea of his life,
Like goblin masks, fleshless and cold and pale.

Would that the heart might break, the mind decease,
Or ever these dark hours that do not move,
Sullen and stagnant as the marshy pool
Whose side the rank sedge crowds, while the green ooze
Spreads o'er the shallows its soft, slimy veil!
Will the prevented waters ne'er o'erflow,
Burst down their muddy dams, and, leaping clear,
Dance through the valleys like a song of joy?
Is there imprisoned winter through my heart,
Frozen to its centre like an icy shroud?
Am I embraced in stone or filled with dust?
Tell me, kind destinies, who rule our days!
In vain; ye ne'er reveal it. There's no soul
Within us that applauds these sullen hours.
Ever the tide returns; but now at ebb,
When the white sands gleam bare and nothing stirs
Save the salt seaweed fringe of little streams
That trickle from lone pools o'er the dented sand.
Cannot I, as the mariner, recline,
Waiting the longed-for hour when with a stir
Of soft, delicious fragrance from the deep,
And heavenly alternations in the kiss
Of the sea-breeze, elastic as young hopes,
The swelling waters hasten, and his bark
At last floats off, rising so steadily,
Her sails all filling with that sweet surprise,
Till her bright keel cuts sharply the green floor,
And tosses off the billows till they laugh.

Yet must we wait, whose voyage knows no content,
Whose compass turns within the eternal stars—
A voyage beyond illimitable worlds;
Yet must I pause upon this earthly ebb,
And play and smile at care and soothe the pain,
Until the raven hair of misery shines.

Brave be thy heart, O sailor of the world!
Erect thy vision, strong and resolute.
Let disappointments strike, and leaden days
Visit thee like a snowdrift across flowers;
Be calm and truthful, and outcheer thy pangs.
And, when thou sufferest, learn from all thy woes,
Those faithful teachers who shall spell thee all
Hope's alphabet and Bible lore. Be calm—
Even in a little this rude voyage is done.
Then heave the time-stained anchor, trim thy sails,
And o'er the bosom of the untrammelled deep
Ride in the heavenly boat and touch new stars.