Faith
Yes , life has mysteries. A day serene
Tempts forth, to the returning waiter's ire,
Our budding joys that to their bloom aspire,
Which, withered, hint the flower that might have been;
Life's unplucked laurels o'er the grave are green;
Or, else, the boon comes late. Love's rose of fire
Or fame's vain wreath crown brows of dead desire.
Such is our present; while a mist doth screen
The far beyond,—Yet, courage! Faith is born
Not of vicissitude, but of the soul.
She from the sharp horizon and near goal
Of Visible Plan would turn, with lofty scorn,
To where, around the peaks, the vapours roll,
And o'er the vapours reigns the Star of Morn.
Tempts forth, to the returning waiter's ire,
Our budding joys that to their bloom aspire,
Which, withered, hint the flower that might have been;
Life's unplucked laurels o'er the grave are green;
Or, else, the boon comes late. Love's rose of fire
Or fame's vain wreath crown brows of dead desire.
Such is our present; while a mist doth screen
The far beyond,—Yet, courage! Faith is born
Not of vicissitude, but of the soul.
She from the sharp horizon and near goal
Of Visible Plan would turn, with lofty scorn,
To where, around the peaks, the vapours roll,
And o'er the vapours reigns the Star of Morn.
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