Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/A Retrospect

A Retrospect.

In the east the shadows deepen, and come creeping where the sun,In the morning, earth adorning, on his glorious march begun,And gilded in the distant west the silver web he spun.Now night's dark pall is thrown o'er all the sons of toil each one,For now to wearied nature all the daily task is done.

In the eve of life the shadows of long-cherished hopes fleet by,And leave their blight of silvery light on a fair sunny sky,For God's best gifts are lent us here, and wait us there on high;Here moth and rust, and dust to dust, and tears that will not dry,—But sighs, nor fears, nor sorrow's tears ne'er reach beyond the sky.

At the eve of life while musing on the sunny hopes of yore,And the loved forms we so cherished, that will come again no more,Then the heart feels tired and weary, and longs for yon bright shore,Whose nightless day drives tears away, and sorrows come no more,For the hopes so fled, the loves so dead, this world can ne'er restore.