Poems (Cook)/Stanzas (Some call the world a dreary place)
For works with similar titles, see Stanzas.
STANZAS.
Some call the world a dreary place,
And tell long tales of sin and woe;
As if there were no blessed trace
Of sunshine to be found below.
And tell long tales of sin and woe;
As if there were no blessed trace
Of sunshine to be found below.
They point, when autumn winds are sighing,
To falling leaves and wither'd flowers;
But shall we only mourn them dying,
And never note their brilliant hours?
To falling leaves and wither'd flowers;
But shall we only mourn them dying,
And never note their brilliant hours?
They mark the rainbow's fading light,
And say it is the type of man;
"So passeth he"—but, oh! how bright
The transient glory of the span!
And say it is the type of man;
"So passeth he"—but, oh! how bright
The transient glory of the span!
They liken Life unto the stream
That, swift and shallow, pours along;
But beauty marks the rippling gleam,
And music fills the bubbling song.
That, swift and shallow, pours along;
But beauty marks the rippling gleam,
And music fills the bubbling song.
Why should the preacher ever rave
Of sorrow, death, and "dust to dust"?
We know that we shall fill a grave,—
But why be sad before we must?
Of sorrow, death, and "dust to dust"?
We know that we shall fill a grave,—
But why be sad before we must?
Look round the world and we shall see,
Despite the cynic's snarling groan,
Much to awaken thankful glee,
As well as wring the hopeless moan.
Despite the cynic's snarling groan,
Much to awaken thankful glee,
As well as wring the hopeless moan.
Perchance the laden tree we shake.
May have a reptile at its root;
But shall we only see the snake,
And quite forget the grateful fruit?
May have a reptile at its root;
But shall we only see the snake,
And quite forget the grateful fruit?
Shall we forget each sunny morn,
And tell of one dire lightning-stroke?
Of all the suits that we have worn,
Shall we but keep the funeral cloak?
And tell of one dire lightning-stroke?
Of all the suits that we have worn,
Shall we but keep the funeral cloak?
Oh why should our own hands be twining
Dark chaplets from the cypress tree?
Why stand in gloomy spots, repining,
When further on sweet buds may be?
Dark chaplets from the cypress tree?
Why stand in gloomy spots, repining,
When further on sweet buds may be?
'Tis true that nightshade oft will bind us,
That eyes, the brightest, will be dim;
Old wrinkled Care too oft will find us,
But why should we go seeking him?
That eyes, the brightest, will be dim;
Old wrinkled Care too oft will find us,
But why should we go seeking him?