Blight, or Blessing
“But saddest is the tho’t of joys
That never yet were tasted.”
—John Hay.
And yet the heart will never turn,
Tho’ all its wealth beside were wasted—
’Twill never cease to plead and yearn
For joys it covets, yet untasted:
And at its secret altar kneeling,
Whereon the life an offering lies,
The soul will lift its one appealing
For joy that Wisdom still denies.
It watches for the longed-for beaming
With hidden, cherished, fond delight,
As tho’ the hoping, wishing, dreaming
Could make the shadowed pathway bright;
As tho’ from out some shining mist,
By radiant bow of promise kissed,
That joy might come, to bless it yet
And soothe the pain of long regret.
Tho’ at our feet fall blessing showers,
All worthless in our grasp they seem,
De-gloried, as are withered flowers,
If still denied the soul’s fond dream.
For lack of it—that single joy,—
The life is robbed of sweet employ;
Each cup seems blent with Upas drips,
Each day seems gloomed with cold eclipse.
Sweet sleep will sometimes give the boon,—
Possession’s own supreme delight,—
Oh, sad that Day dissolves so soon
The bright, warm vision—gift of Night!
Brief joy! The rapturous dream diffused,
Swims round the soul like golden mist,
And life a moment seems suffused
With dawn’s own rose and amethyst.
And shall it be,—this sorest need—
To us, eternal, haunting loss?
Or will this spirit-hunger lead
Up, from this life-enduring cross,
With sentience large, evolved by this,
(When change the mortal veil shall rift,)
To take our own supremest bliss
From God’s infinitudes of gift?