by Harold Thornton.
Originally published in The Poet's Magazine (Leonard Lloyd) vol.1 #1 (Aug 1876).
Sun is setting, clouds are fretting
Heaven's blue dome with unshed tears,
Sorrows of our own begetting
Look from out the future years;
While the Past is past forgetting,
And the Present full of fears.
Shall we never leave off sighing
For the pleasures of the Past?
Is there nothing satisfying
Where our lonely lot is cast?
Ah! we seem so long in dying,
But the end must come at last.
Like frail leaves, the wild winds blowing,
Closely clinging to the tree—
So poor mortals, nothing knowing,
Dread to learn what is to be;
Dread Death's scythe the ripe corn mowing,
Fear to face Eternity.
Are our sorrows worth the grieving,
When we think our future fate
May be blissful, past believing,
If awhile we patient wait?
For a rich reward receiving
Pleasures pure and passionate.
What can wait us after dying,
But a fuller, freer life,
Void of sorrow, sin, or sighing,
Things with which the Past was rife?
Or the wearied body lying
Peaceful after years of strife?
Let us not give way, despairing,
While the faintest hope remains:
But the rather, dangers daring,
Censure him who first complains;
Each the other's burden bearing,
Bound in love or friendship's chains.