Classic Poem

The light is ever silent;
It calls up voices over sea and earth,
And fills the glowing air with harmonies,
The lark's gay chant, the note of forest-dove,
The lamb's quick bleat, and the bee's earnest hum,
The sea-bird's winged wail upon the wave.
It wakes the voice of childhood, soft and clear;
The city's noisy rush, the village-stir,
And the world's mighty murmur that had sunk,
For a short hour, to sleep upon the down
That darkness spread for wearied limbs and eyes,
But still it sounds not, speaks not, whispers not!
Not one faint throb of its vast pulse is heard
By creature-ear. How silent is the light!
Even when of old it wakened Memnon's lyre,
It breathed no music of its own; and still,
When at sweet sunrise, on its golden wings,
It brings the melodies of dawn to man,
It scatters them in silence o'er the earth.

The light is ever silent;
It sparkles on morn's million gems of dew,
It flings itself into the shower of noon,
It weaves its gold into the cloud of sunset—
Yet not a sound is heard; it dashes full
On yon broad rock, yet not an echo answers;
It lights in myriad drops upon the flower,
Yet not a blossom stirs, it does not move
The slightest film of floating gossamer,
Which the faint touch of insect's wing would shiver.

The light is ever silent;
Most silent of all heavenly silences;
Not even the darkness stiller, nor so still;
Too swift for sound or speech, it rushes on
Right through the yielding skies, a massive flood
Of multitudinous beams; an endless sea,
That flows but ebbs not, breaking on the shore
Of this dark earth, with never-ceasing wave,
Yet in its swiftest flow, or fullest spring-tide,
Giving less sound than does one falling blossom,
Which the May breeze lays lightly on the sward.

Such let my life be here;
Not marked by noise but by success alone;
Not known by bustle but by useful deeds,
Quiet and gentle, clear and fair as light;
Yet full of its all-penetrating power,
Its silent but resistless influence;
Wasting no needless sound, yet ever working,
Hour after hour, upon a needy world.

Sunshine is ever calm;
There are no tempests in yon sea of beams,
That bright Pacific on whose peaceful bosom
All happy things come floating down to us.
Light has no hurricane, no angry blast,
No turbid torrent laying waste our plains.
Morn after morn goes by, and the fresh light,
Pours in upon the darkness, yet no storm
Awakes, no eddy stirs the tranquil glow;
No crested billow rises, and no foam
Drifting along, tells of some tumult past.

Sunshine is ever strong;
No blast can break or bend one single ray;
In seven-fold strength it faces wave and wind
Heedless of their opposing turbulence,
It passes through them in its quiet power,
Unruffled, and unbroken, and unbent.
No might of armies, and no rage of storms,
Can turn aside one sunbeam from its path,
Or bate its speed, or force it back again
To the far fountain-head from whence it came.

Sunshine is ever pure;
No art of man can rob it of its beauty,
Nor stain its unpolluted heavenliness.
It is the fairest, purest thing in nature,
Fit type of that fair heaven where all is pure,
And into which no evil thing can enter,
Where darkness comes not, where no shadow falls,
Where night and sin can have no dwelling-place.

Sunshine is ever joyous;
Its birthplace is in yon bright orb which flings,
O'er cliff and vale its wealth of rosy smiles.
Each sunbeam seems the very soul of joy;
No sadness soils it; scattering gladsomeness,
Like a bright angel, onward still it moves.
The very churchyard brightens as the ray
Alights upon its tombstones, and the turf
Seems strangely heaving to the radiant glow,
As if fore-dating the expected sunrise,
When, at the first gleam of the Morning-Star
The faithful grave shall render up its treasure,
And sunshine, such as earth has never known,
Shall fill these skies with mirth, and smiles, and beauty
Erasing each sad wrinkle from their brow,
Which the long curse had deeply graven there.