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THERE is a light in thy blue eyes,
Like an eternal morn,

A glorious freshness of the skies,
That dulls not, nor is worn,
Though all earth's flitting shadows try
Its sunny immortality.

From thee I learn all gentleness,
From thee I learn all truth;
And, from thy brimming heart's excess,
My spirit garners youth,
Gleaning, in harvest-hours like this,
Ripe winter-stores of golden bliss.


O, happy soul! O, happy heart!

O, happy dreams of mine!
That thus can linger all apart

Within so charmed a shrine,
While the old weary earth turns round
With all its strife of empty sound!



THERE is not in this life of ours

One ss unmixed with fears;

The hope that wakes our deepest powers

A face of sadness wears,

And the dew that showers our dearest flowers Is the bitter dew of tears.

Fame waiteth long, and lingereth

Through weary nights and morns, And evermore the shadow Death

With mocking finger scorns That underneath the laurel-wreath Should be a wreath of thorns.


The laurel-leaves are cool and green,

But the thorns are hot and sharp; Lean Hunger grins and stares between

The poet and his harp,

Though of Love's sunny sheen his woof have been, Grim Want thrusts in the warp.

And if, beyond this darksome clime,
Some fair star Hope may see,
That keeps unjarred the blissful chime

Of its golden infancy,

Where the harvest-time of faith sublime

Not always is to be;


Yet would the true soul rather choose
A home where sorrow is,

Than in a sated peace to lose

Its life's supremest bliss,

The rainbow hues that bend profuse


O'er cloudy spheres like this,

The want, the sorrow, and the pain,

That are Love's right to cure,

The sunshine bursting after rain,

The gladness insecure,

That makes us fain strong hearts to gain, To do and to endure.

High natures must be thunder-scarred
With many a searing wrong;
From mother Sorrow's breasts the bard

Sucks gifts of deepest song;
Nor all unmarred with struggles hard
Wax the soul's sinews strong.

Dear Patience, too, is born of woe, Patience, that opes the gate Wherethrough the soul of man must go

Up to each nobler state,

Whose voice's flow so meek and low

Smooths the bent brows of Fate.

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