Poems (Larcom)/So Little
SO LITTLE.
'TIS little we can look for now; The summer years are past; The air is thick with coming snow, And dead leaves, falling fast. A lonelier sound is in the wind, For withered roses left behind.
There was an Indian summer, sweet With blossoms, faint and few, When fruits lay ripened at our feet; But that has faded, too. Its joy was but the after-glow Of sunsets crimsoned long ago.
And yet we never plucked the flowers That budded in our dreams: Even at the best, this world of ours Is other than it seems. A generous world indeed it is,—Most generous in its promises,
And with a golden promise still, It lures us travellers on To death's white steep, the wintry hill Up which our friends have gone, And vanished from our mortal sight,—Thank God! into no starless night.
Faint music from beyond that steep;— A rose-breath, far and rare:—So little can we guess!—but deep Heart's faith is rooted there. So little,—and yet so much more Than we have hoped or dreamed before!