Poems (Howard)/Tristesse

by Hattie Howard

Tristesse.

Oh, weary steps! Why follow where
   No joys illume,
O'er trodden paths, so hard and bare,
   And dark with gloom?

Tumult is misery, and naught
   That earth contains
Is coveted, like some blest spot
   Where quiet reigns.

Away from "busy haunts of men,"
   The ceaseless din,
Behold!—an unfrequented glen,
   And rest within.

Thy countless charms, O Solitude!
   By sages sung,
Are recognized in this deep wood;
   A kindly tongue,

In rock, and tree, and flowing brook,
   That whispers peace;
A voice from every sheltered nook
   Bids sorrow cease.

Sweet evening breezes fan the face,
   And cool the brow,
While day-light wanes, with matchless grace,
   Unknown till now.

There 's naught, that hinders pure delight,
   Can enter here;
And none, but "voices of the night,"
   Salute the ear.

'T is joy to know, as o'er the way
   The shadows creep,
There comes, to close the impassioned day,
   Forgetting sleep.