Poems (Jordan)/Life's Story
LIFE'S STORY
Our actions are as pens which dip themselves
In Time's pale ink, to write Life's story, out;
And the finished book lies on the shelves
For the old World to read and talk about.
In Time's pale ink, to write Life's story, out;
And the finished book lies on the shelves
For the old World to read and talk about.
'Tis thus Life's tale is written; thus is read,—
But does the reader know that, underneath
This story, is one not interpreted
In any book whose pages end at death?
But does the reader know that, underneath
This story, is one not interpreted
In any book whose pages end at death?
And that the meaning 'neath the cov'ring word
Is lived—though unrecorded—day by day?
That, where the pages seen are soiled—or blurred!
The cause is hidden from all sight, away?
Is lived—though unrecorded—day by day?
That, where the pages seen are soiled—or blurred!
The cause is hidden from all sight, away?
A broken heart may lie 'neath Sorrow's sea,
And only floating words show the place Where
That soul has sunk beneath its agony,
And learned their meaning in its own despair!
And only floating words show the place Where
That soul has sunk beneath its agony,
And learned their meaning in its own despair!
So, Life's strange tale cannot in books be told;—
The heart's warm blood would on the type congeal;
But when the words upon their pages scrolled
Are dust, we then shall read what they conceal!
The heart's warm blood would on the type congeal;
But when the words upon their pages scrolled
Are dust, we then shall read what they conceal!