Page:Poems Jackson.djvu/349

My hand upon thee, when the hour
Shall all have passed, and, gladder then
For the brief pain's uplifting power,
Thou shalt but pity griefless men."

I grew by minutes changed and old,
As men change not in many years
Of happiness. Lifetimes untold
Seemed dragging lifeless by. My tears
Ran slow for utter weariness
Of weeping; and, when token came
The hour was done, I felt far less
Of joy than woe; as one whose name
Is called, when prison doors have swung
Open too late, reluctantly
Goes forth to find himself among
Strange faces, desolate, though free.

"O cruel brethren, Joy and Grief,"
I cried, "with equal mockery
Your promises meet our belief,
One blossom and one fruit will be
Your harvest! But full well I know
They are not harvest; only seed
Sown in our tears, from which shall grow
In other soil harvest indeed,—

"Harvest in God's great gardens white,
Where cool and living waters run,
And where the spotless Lamb is light,
Instead of pallid moon and sun;