Poems (Howard)/"The Melancholy Days"
"The Melancholy Days."
Are these "the melancholy days" That poets sometimes write about So querulous, one scarce can doubt That some uneasy qualm, or pout Inspired their half-complaining lays?
Why, happy Time too swiftly flies In joy-filled moments, such as these! When Nature's aim seems but to please By interweaving harmonies That thrill our souls, and feast our eyes.
Who reads aright her open book, Emblazoned, finds on every page Some new delight for youth or age; A paean, or a sermon sage In rock, and tree, and flowing brook.
Upon the hills a poem lies; Nocturnes are whispered through the trees, And caught by every passing breeze; And, from the vale, sweet symphonies, As by an angel chorus, rise.
The year is dying, it is said— Can Death be beautiful as this? Without regret, it must be bliss To give to earth the parting kiss And thus approach one's dying bed.
O it were sweet to know that Death Thus beautiful, robbed of its sting, That makes it an unwelcome thing, Could come to us! who then would clingTo Life, or grudge th' expiring breath?