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Deep Poems

Table of Contents

  1. The Seasons by E. F. Hayward
  2. XXVIII. Past Sorrows by Christopher Pearse Cranch
  3. XXXV. 7. by Christopher Pearse Cranch
  4. Mystery by Dudley Hughes Davis

  1. The Seasons

    by E. F. Hayward

    I love to watch the seasons change;
    As Summer takes the throne from Spring,
    So wonderful sublime and strange,
    Each one its own sweet songs does sing.

    It seems each one, in turn, is best;
    Is gifted with some special grace;
    Yet Summer fades, as have the rest,
    And Autumn boldly takes its place.

    This of the Four I hold most dear,
    Would be content to have it stay;
    But Winter comes to close the year,
    And Autumn scenes must pass away.

    Just so our lives; our childhood days
    Are filled with joy, that's ne'er forgot;
    And he is wise who simply says,
    "I love them all," and murmurs not.

  2. XXVIII. Past Sorrows

    by Christopher Pearse Cranch

    As tangled driftwood barring up a stream
    Against our struggling oars when hope is high
    To reach some fair green island we descry
    Lying beyond us in the morning's gleam,
    And shimmering like a landscape in a dream —
    Yet waiting patiently the logs float by,
    And all our course lies open to the eye —
    So sorrows come and go. What though they seem
    A blight whose touch might turn a young head gray,
    Joy dawns again. Hope beckons us before.
    The tide that pressed against us breaks our bars;
    The visionary islands smile once more.
    Life, with its rest by night, its work by day,
    Forgets the old griefs, and heals their deepest scars.

  3. XXXV. 7.

    by Christopher Pearse Cranch

    The wish behind the thought is the soul's star
    Of faith, and out of earth we build our heaven.
    Life to each unschooled child of time has given
    A fairy wand with which he thinks to unbar
    The dark gate to a region vast and far,
    Where all is gained at length for which he has striven —
    All loss requited — all offences shriven —
    All toil o'erpassed — effaced each battle-scar.
    But ah! what heaven of rest could countervail
    The ever widening thought — the endless stress
    Of action whereinto the heart is born?
    What sphere so blessèd it could overbless
    With sweets the soul, when all such gifts must fail,
    If from its chosen work that soul were torn?

  4. Mystery

    by Dudley Hughes Davis

    A little brook, with beauties grand,
    Comes rippling from a mountain spring,
    And winds its way o'er stone and sand
    Through woods where birds melodious sing.

    Through time unknown to days of man,
    This murmuring stream has found its way,
    And cut a ravine through the land,
    A link in nature's grand display.

    And interwoven timber bends
    In wreathy arches o'er the walls,
    Through which this little brook descends,
    To make its leap down o'er the falls.

    It rushes down its winding stair,
    A bold and sparkling silvery sheet;
    It sends its mist into the air,
    And forms a rainbow at its feet.

    By little streams the chasm cliff
    Is worn to grains of drifting sand,
    And angry waters foam and drift
    Through wonderous wall not made by hand.

    And man looks back through time unknown
    To date the wonderous streamlet hand,
    Which sculptured chasm wall of stone,
    And wore its chips to grains of sand.

    But could the work a life had done
    Be seen by eves of mortal man,
    The sands that crumble one by one
    Could equal not the busy hand.

    Though life is short man, leaves the stage,
    As though his wonderous work was done,
    Another man, another age,
    Proves that his work has just begun.

    So like the mystic cataract stream
    Which flows a myriad years through sand,
    The world's adrift by light and stream,
    The work of ages, brain and hand.

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