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Poem	A dewy flower, bathed in crimson light, May touch the soul—a pure and beauteous sight; A golden river flashing 'neath the sun, May reach the spot where life's dark waters run; Yet, when the sun is gone, the splendor dies, With drooping head the tender flower lies. And such is life; a golden mist of light, A tangled web that glitters in the sun; When shadows come, the glory takes its flight, The treads are dark and worn, and life is done. Oh! tears, that chill us like the dews of eve, Why come unbid—why should we ever grieve? Why is it, though life hath its leaves of gold, The book each day some sorrow must unfold! What human heart with truth can dare to say No grief is mine—this is a perfect day? Oh! poet, take your harp of gold and sing, And all the earth with heavenly music fill! You may do this, yet song can never bring One sunbeam back, let song be what it will. Oh! painter, you can catch the glowing light That tints the skies before the coming night; With throbbing heart and upward lifted eyes, You paint the splendor of the purple skies; Yet tell me, does your genius hold the key To life's strange secrets and its mystery? Oh! life is sad, yet sunshine, too, is there; We cannot tell what spell the years may weave— Perchance a song that dies upon the air— Perhaps a shadow that the sun doth leave.
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