POETRY.
In the glad triumph of a great success,
Than for existence to have missed the sweetness
In the self-consciousness of doing best.
What must it be, indeed, to find a language Able to make responsive the world's life, Giving by pulsive feeling wrought to anguish Form to the pain with which the world is rife ?
Surely 'tis much to have once had the setting Of the dull monotones of each one's life Into some chastened harmony begetting
Easance of pain and of the olden strife,—
Much to have power to pour one's own soul's sadness Into the crucible of pulsing song, Saving, may be, the soul from very madness,
Vibrating to the echo of its wrong,—
Able to shadow forth the weary yearning, Easing the bitterness of dumb desire, Bursting the silence which is ever turning Life into anguish under its slow fire.
Better have stood for once upon the summit, Better have taken wings for one short hour, Better have had the loss and overcome it, Than to have missed the memory of such power. S. P.
Previous page
