4523982Poems — Sunshine and ShadowMary Caroline Denver and Jane Campbell Denver
SUNSHINE AND SHADOW.
When first I sung, my heart was full, Of many a wild and witching dream, And all within was beautiful As moonlight on a tranquil stream; Brightness and gladness, song and flowers Came in the sunshine and in showers: And whatsoe'er their tongues might tell, My own heart could interpret well.
I thought the. mind was prone to turn, And after nobler things aspire Than the world's offers, and would burn With pure and intellectual fire. I did not think the heart would wander, And all its riches idly squander, In seeking after shining dust, When gold was near that would not rust.
I heard a voice within my heart That told of high, ideal worth, Till shaking off its baser part My spirit soared away from earth. I listened to the voice that called me, Until its eloquence enthralled me; And in the solitude of song My heart reposed and tarried long.
I strove each hidden gem to find That yet might undiscovered hide; I sought each broken link to bind That carelessly was cast aside. I drank the dew from her sweet flowers, I stole the odors from her bowers, I caught her harmonies, and long Inhabited the land of song.
Tired of too sweet a solitude, At length I sent my spirit forth; And like the dove when stayed the flood, To find a resting place on earth, It wandered restlessly and lonely, And found a waste of waters only, Or if it paused to look around, Not even an olive leaf it found.
But like the dove, unto the ark, It could not wander back again; When once it launched the spirit's barque On the wide waste, it must remain, Given up to tempest and to terror, To tears, to loneliness, to error; So thought I, and again I sung, Yet sadder was the harp I strung.
I sought the chambers of decay, I wandered through the halls of death; I stole their sombre gloom away, And paused to catch the last drawn breath. I mingled them with every measure, I bound them up with every treasure, That trembled in my heart, and long I drank the bitterness of song.
I stood alone, where all was life, I grieved alone where all was mirth, Within was a perpetual strife, That told me life was little worth, The cares, perplexities and sorrows That crowd upon succeeding morrows, Till from its animated clay, My loathing spirit turned away.
Then came a change—I know not when, Nor how, but like a spirit's wing A breath of bliss came o'er me then, When once again I strove to sing. I read the language of the flowers, I drank the essence of the hours, I gathered gladness from the skies, And felt new hope within me rise,
Not as of old to grasp the lyre, And blend its every tone with mine, Thus casting pure, poetic fire Before ambition's idol-shrine, And not to think the bud and blossom Could bloom for all but my own bosom, Or sunshine rain on all around, While in my own heart darkness frowned.
I ask no more; the laurel wreath That won me on with many a smile, A clustering blossom lies beneath Wherein lurk poison, care and guile. I touch the chords no more in sadness, I sing no more of memory's madness, I dream no more that life is vain; The jewel lost is found again.
Could we but read the heart aright, Could we but learn in Heaven to trust, How much of doubt would take its flight, How much would shine, now dim with rust! We then should read from others' feelings Those pure and exquisite revealings That lead the heart in bliss along, And never speak, except in song.
Oh Thou! who dwellest so far above, Grant me some portion of Thy might, To never speak, except in love, To never judge, unless aright. Give me the power to steep my lyre, Only in pure, poetic fire; To warm the hearts of all I see, And feel it sanctified by Thee!
