Regret.

“—if only it never had been All the world had been brighter and then—”

Will a hope never throb, but it comes back a sob, From the echoing halls of the soul? Do the joy-bells stirred, by a low thrilling word, Forever resound with a funeral toll? Will the roses we grasp, like the bite of an asp, Give back to our sense but the stinging of pain? Can there float a perfume, from the lillies’ white bloom, That blends with enchantment Tofana’s slow bane? Where but flowers were sown, has a thistle seed blown, To root in their soil, a vile bramble to grow? Doth each lovliest vine, ’round a hyssop entwine? And out from sweet fountains must bitterness flow? Does there lurk in each joy, a vile fiend to destroy All the pleasure and blessing it brought, With the stings of regret, as with thorns thickly set, That will pierce, as it turns, every retrospect thought? Ay, there’s never a spot, where this demon is not; Like a serpent he creeps in this Eden of ours, Where its pleasures are purest, its treasures securest, And blights with his poison its loveliest flowers. But we’ll act for the right, as God gives us the light, Nor complain that the end from our vision is veiled; ’Twas in blessing and love, that the Father above, Secured us from loss that prevision entailed. In mercy, dear Father, still veil from our sight, The dawn of a joy, or a grief’s brooding night, That we faint not, expecting the gathering gloom, Nor cease in the strife that ennobles the life,— That we cloud not our joys with a shadowy tomb, Nor a heart ever miss the delectable bliss, Of a sweet, unexpected delight.

When paths that in summer were fringed with lush grass, Are raspy with frost-whitened blades as you pass, When the arbor’s denuded of clusters and leaves, And the Ivy’s bare vines are entwining the eaves, When the bright tinted sumach has changed to a brown And the wind-shaken forest drops summer wealth down— The autumn’s rich robings of crimson and gold In the path of the years, to be trampled as mould— When the beauty of purple-hued asters is shed, And the glory of goldenrod faded and dead, When the song-birds, we loved for their jubilant tune, Have gone where they find a perennial June, When clouds that were downy on the summer’s bright blue, Have draped all the skies in a somberly hue, When the orchard has yielded its riches of fruit, And its life-feeding myst’ry is hid in the root— The Aftermath gathered—the last sheaves of grain— When Nature seems all in a funeral train, Then Hazel buds burst thro’ their scales into bloom, And glow like the stars that rob midnight of gloom. When brooklets, unfettered, went leaping in glee, O’er rocks and thro’ woodlands, adown to the sea— When the bloom-time of Spring, in its glory, was here, And earth all resounding with music and cheer, When asphodels loaded with fragrance the air And vied with the roses in loveliness rare, Witch-Hazel, from Nature, seemed standing apart, The wee, golden buds were asleep in its heart, And sunshine and shower besought it, in vain, To star, with its bloom, Flora’s garlanded fane. Oh, marvel of beauty—bright blossoms of gold! They show us the life leafless branches enfold. ’Tis the flower of hope with this lesson of cheer— ’Tis the season of rest, not “The death of the year,” When, Nature, reposing in the bosom of God, Feels the throb of His heart ’neath her snow-mantled sod— At the soul of All-life with new life is imbued— At the Fountain of Beauty, enriched and renewed. * * * * * Aye, symbol of Hope and the star gleam of Faith, That give to Life’s autumn a glow— A spirit revealed, while the seeming of Death Lies palled in the brown leaves below. A mission it has that was given of Him Who gave it its blossoming time; Thus blooming alone—desolation around, Defying the glittering rime, It speaks to the soul—’tis an oracle sweet, His token, His promise and bond That, tho’ passing thro’ change that leads down thro’ the tomb, There’s a beautiful Springtime beyond.