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THERE is a light in thy blue eyes,
A glorious freshness of the skies,
From thee I learn all gentleness,
O, happy soul! O, happy heart!
O, happy dreams of mine!
Within so charmed a shrine,
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,
Of its golden infancy,
Where the harvest-time of faith sublime
Not always is to be;
Yet would the true soul rather choose
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
Sucks gifts of deepest song;
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.