I have drunk deep Of the well of bitterness. Black hours have harried me, Blind fate has bludgeoned my bent head, And on my brow the iron crown Of sorrow has been crushed. And being mortal, I have cried aloud At anguish ineluctable. But over each black hour has hung Forlorn this star of knowledge: The path of pain too great to be endured Leads always unto peace; And when the granite road of anguish mounts Up and still up to its one ultimate And dizzy height of torture, Softly it dips and meets The valley of endless rest!
Summer is dead. And love is gone. And life is glad of this. For sad were both, with having given much; And bowed were both, with great desires fulfilled; And both were grown too sadly wise Ever to live again. Too aged with hours o'er-passionate, Too deeply sung by throats That took no thought of weariness, Moving too madly toward the crest of things, Giving too freely of the fountaining sap, Crowding too gladly into grass and leaves, Breathing too blindly into flower and song! Again the lyric hope may thrill the world, Again the sap may sweeten into leaves, Again will grey-eyed April come With all her choiring throats; But not to-day-- For the course is run. And the cruse is full, And the loin ungirt, And the hour ordained! And now there is need of rest; And need of renewal there is; And need of silence, And need of sleep. Too clear the light Now lies on hill and valley; And little is left to say, And nothing is left to give. Summer is dead; And love is gone!
I am through with regret. No more shall I kennel with pain. I have called to this whimpering soul, This soul that is sodden with tears And sour with the reek of the years! And now we shall glory in light! Like a tatter of sail in the wind, Like a tangle of net on the sand, Like a hound stretched out in the heat, My soul shall lie in the sun, And be drowsy with peace, And not think of the past!
Letters from Home, you said. Unopened they lay on the shack-sill As you stared with me at the prairie And the foothills bathed with light. Letters from Home, you whispered, And the homeland casements shone Through the homeland dusk again, And the sound of the birds came back, And the soft green sorrowing hills, And the sigh of remembered names, The wine of remembered youth,-- Oh, these came back, Back with those idle words Of "Letters from Home"!