Poems (Procter)/My Journal

by Adelaide Anne Procter

MY JOURNAL.

T is a dreary evening; The shadows rise and fall:With strange and ghostly changes, They flicker on the wall.

Make the charred logs burn brighter; I will show you, by their blaze,The half-forgotten record Of bygone things and days.

Bring here the ancient volume; The clasp is old and worn,The gold is dim and tarnished, And the faded leaves are torn.

The dust has gathered on it,— There are so few who careTo read what Time has written Of joy and sorrow there.

Look at the first fair pages; Yes, I remember all:The joys now seem so trivial, The griefs so poor and small.

Let us read the dreams of glory That childish fancy made;Turn to the next few pages, And see how soon they fade.

Here, where still waiting, dreaming, For some ideal Life,The young heart all unconscious Had entered on the strife.

See how this page is blotted: What, could those tears be mine?How coolly I can read you Each blurred and trembling line.

Now I can reason calmly, And, looking back again,Can see divinest meaning Threading each separate pain.

Here strong resolve—how broken; Rash hope, and foolish fear,And prayers, which God in pity Refused to grant or hear.

Nay, I will turn the pages To where the tale is toldOf how a dawn diviner Flushed the dark clouds with gold.

And see, that light has gilded The story—nor shall set;And, though in mist and shadow, You know I see it yet.

Here—well, it does not matter, I promised to read all;I know not why I falter, Or why my tears should fall;

You see each grief is noted; Yet it was better so—I can rejoice to-day—the pain Was over, long ago.

I read—my voice is failing, But you can understandHow the heart beat that guided This weak and trembling hand.

Pass over that long struggle, Read where the comfort came,Where the first time is written Within the book your name.

Again it comes, and oftener, Linked, as it now must be,With all the joy or sorrow That Life may bring to me.

So all the rest—you know it: Now shut the clasp again,And put aside the record Of bygone hours of pain.

The dust shall gather on it, I will not read it more:Give me your hand—what was it We were talking of before?

I know not why—but tell me Of something gay and bright.It is strange—my heart is heavy, And my eyes are dim to-night.