Doubt
If we were called from nothing but to dream
A restless hour of phantom joy and pain;
If Birth and Life and Death are what they seem —
What sorry jests we are, how poor and vain!
If Being has no more to give.
If we are but the naked brood of Chance,
Bewildered stragglers toward no destined bourn —
Foiled and misled by jeering Circumstance
Till trapped to death, then it were wise to spurn
The worthless heritage of breath.
But if for purpose wiser than we know
The pallid shadow we call Life is given —
If guided on some steadfast way we go
Through storm and darkness toward a quiet haven,
Then it is glorious to live.
If dying is but passage, and the tomb
The solemn portal to sublimer life,
In slumber, sweet as love, borne through the gloom,
We leave behind the sadness and the strife —
Then doubly glorious is death.
A restless hour of phantom joy and pain;
If Birth and Life and Death are what they seem —
What sorry jests we are, how poor and vain!
If Being has no more to give.
If we are but the naked brood of Chance,
Bewildered stragglers toward no destined bourn —
Foiled and misled by jeering Circumstance
Till trapped to death, then it were wise to spurn
The worthless heritage of breath.
But if for purpose wiser than we know
The pallid shadow we call Life is given —
If guided on some steadfast way we go
Through storm and darkness toward a quiet haven,
Then it is glorious to live.
If dying is but passage, and the tomb
The solemn portal to sublimer life,
In slumber, sweet as love, borne through the gloom,
We leave behind the sadness and the strife —
Then doubly glorious is death.
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