"What ails the world?" he sings and sighs;
No answer cometh to his cry.
He asks the earth and asks the sky --
The echoes of his song pass by
Unanswered -- and the poet dies.
A Thought
There never was a valley without a faded flower,
There never was a heaven without some little cloud;
The face of day may flash with light in any morning hour,
But evening soon shall come with her shadow-woven shroud.
There never was a river without its mists of gray,
There never was a forest without its fallen leaf;
And joy may walk beside us down the windings of our way,
When, lo! there sounds a footstep, and we meet the face of grief.
There never was a seashore without its drifting wreck,
There never was an ocean without its moaning wave;
And the golden gleams of glory the summer sky that fleck,
Shine where dead stars are sleeping in their azure-mantled grave.
There never was a streamlet, however crystal clear,
Without a shadow resting in the ripples of its tide;
Hope's brightest robes are 'broidered with the sable fringe of fear,
And she lures us, but abysses girt her path on either side.
The shadow of the mountain falls athwart the lowly plain,
And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above the mountain's head,
And the highest hearts and lowest wear the shadow of some pain,
And the smile has scarcely flitted ere the anguish'd tear is shed.
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