Page:The Collected Poems of Dora Sigerson Shorter.djvu/214

There is an end of passion—a joy reigns there for ever,
That the storm's great exultation cannot conquer or displace;
Here is an end of quiet, and weary hearts rest never,
Lest coming feet should crush them in the passion of life's race.

There amidst long fern and perfumed breath of heather
A laughing river wakes far up the mountain-side,
To meet a hundred streams and join their songs together
As they glance through mead and woodland to meet the restless tide.

But here the mourning river flows past in sullen sorrow—
In her shamed desecration she hurries to the sea;
She hath heard full many cries that sought a great to-morrow,
Many a desperate soul that curst the laws that be.

Many griefs are covered by her dark mantle flowing.
Many a cold white face lies hidden on her breast;
With her, men would escape the reaping of their sowing.
Sad women give their souls for her sweet rest.

I said: When he has heard how hollow is our laughing.
Seen Crime and grey Despair creep hand in hand with Night,
How Failure spills the cup Ambition Ells for quaffing,
How Love is timid, coming to Care's sight.

I said in discontentment: Oh, who hath heart for singing?
Go seek some worthier spot for thy sweet lay.
But through the changing summer until bare boughs are swinging,
He goes singing, singing, singing all the day.