Some hidden disappointment clings
To all of man—to all his schemes,
And life has little fair it brings,
Save idle dreams.
The peace that may be ours to-day,
Scarce heed we, looking for the morrow;
The slighted moments steal away,
And then comes sorrow.
The light of promise that may glow
Where life shines fair in bud or bloom,
Ere fruit hath ripen'd forth to show,
Is quench'd in gloom.
The rapture softest blush imparts,
Dies with the bloom that fades away,
And glory from the wave departs
At close of day.
Where we have garner'd up our hearts,
And fixed our earnest love and trust,
The very life-blood thence departs,
And all is dust.
Then, Nature, let us turn to thee;
For in thy countless changes thou
Still bearest immortality
Upon they brow.
Thy seasons, in their endless round
Of sunshine, tempest, calm or blight,
Yet leave thee like an empress crown'd
With jewels bright.
Thy very storms are life to thee,
'Tis but a sleep thy seeming death;
We see thee wake in flower and tree
At spring's soft breath.
We view the ruin of our youth,
Decay's wan trace on all we cherish;
But thou, in thine unfailing truth,
Canst never perish.
J. D.