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“THE HOUSE OF PAIN
Unto the Prison House of Pain none willingly
repair, —
The bravest who an entrance gain
Reluctant linger there,
For Pleasure, passing by that door, stays not to
cheer the sight.
And Sympathy but muffles sound and banishes the
light.
Yet in the Prison House of Pain things full of
beauty blow, —
Like Christmas-roses, which attain
Perfection 'mid the snow, —
Love, entering, in his mild warmth the darkest
shadows melt,
And often, where the hush is deep, the waft of
wings is felt.
Ah, me ! the Prison House of Pain ! — what lessons
there are bought ! —
Lessons of a sublimer strain
Than any elsewhere taught, —
Amid its loneliness and gloom, grave meanings
grow more clear,
For to no earthly dwelling-place seems God so
strangely near !”
―
Unto the Prison House of Pain none willingly
repair, —
The bravest who an entrance gain
Reluctant linger there,
For Pleasure, passing by that door, stays not to
cheer the sight.
And Sympathy but muffles sound and banishes the
light.
Yet in the Prison House of Pain things full of
beauty blow, —
Like Christmas-roses, which attain
Perfection 'mid the snow, —
Love, entering, in his mild warmth the darkest
shadows melt,
And often, where the hush is deep, the waft of
wings is felt.
Ah, me ! the Prison House of Pain ! — what lessons
there are bought ! —
Lessons of a sublimer strain
Than any elsewhere taught, —
Amid its loneliness and gloom, grave meanings
grow more clear,
For to no earthly dwelling-place seems God so
strangely near !”
―
“An Adieu"
Sorrow, quit me for a while!
Wintry days are over;
Hope again, with April smile,
Violets sows and clover.
Pleasure follows in her path,
Love itself flies after,
And the brook a music hath
Sweet as childhood’s laughter.
Not a bird upon the bough
Can repress its rapture,
Not a bud that blossoms now
But doth beauty capture.
Sorrow, thou art Winter’s mate,
Spring cannot regret thee;
Yet, ah, yet—my friend of late—
I shall not forget thee!”
―
Sorrow, quit me for a while!
Wintry days are over;
Hope again, with April smile,
Violets sows and clover.
Pleasure follows in her path,
Love itself flies after,
And the brook a music hath
Sweet as childhood’s laughter.
Not a bird upon the bough
Can repress its rapture,
Not a bud that blossoms now
But doth beauty capture.
Sorrow, thou art Winter’s mate,
Spring cannot regret thee;
Yet, ah, yet—my friend of late—
I shall not forget thee!”
―
“My Poems were written without a purpose, other than the expression of faiths and ideals strongly realized and emotions keenly felt. They were written for the joy of writing, and for the satisfaction of an irresistible impulse. It is my belief that it is not the business of art either to teach or to preach.”
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