A Scrap for the Season

Dublin Core


A Scrap for the Season


It is unnatural, we learn by sight,

For things to sorrow long. Philosophy,

Whose ken is clear, does prove us this. Still night,

Which sits, so frequent weeping that the eye

Of twilight should neglect her, - scorns to sigh,

So soon as wooers throng her lighted courts.

How smilingly she decks her with her wreath

Of stars, to win new suitors! What gay thoughts,

She whispers softly with her balmy breath,

To such as praise her! And what merry airs,

Fall sweet on those whom she delights to charm.

Long grief weighs not with her. Old jealous cares,

That wring betimes such dropping tears, soon calm

In pleasant joy notes; and each new-born ray

Salutes her, as in misty robes, she hies

To greet with dewy lip young peering day,

Before she sinks to dreaming.

See the skies,

At this mild April time, how they rejoice!

And all the streams that were so dull, but now

How cheerfully they course with rippling voice,

And laugh along their borders! Every bough

Now lifts itself to catch the sun's warm glance!

The tiny insects, and the chirping birds,

Join matin songs! the earth, from her dull trance,

Wakes smilingly! with joy, the pent up herds

Drink in the breeze! the young, peeping grass blades,

And the early plants, each other jostle

In their new attire! while from 'neath cool shades,

All noiselessly, bright creatures dart, and bustle

In the sunny tide! Cheerfulness is spread

O'er everything. With merry tones alone,

The tale is told, of life and beauty fled,

Of blighted growth, and dreary winter gone.

'Tis even so with us. When ills come down,

And veil us in dull grief, - we bow to earth

With fainting hearts; we weep and groan

O'er disappointed hopes; or mourn the dearth

Of broken fortunes, and divided loves.

But soon the soul its upward bearing proves.

Though lowly press'd, sufficiency we find

Within ourselves; a something, that doth calm

Our poignant woes. 'Tis in the subtle mind; -

In thoughts that range, that soar, expand and warm

In holy light; or those that quiet seek

Attentive spirits. For it is arrang'd

By Him who keeps us, that the heart, though bleak,

And wasted sore by winds that kill; estrang'd

By poverty, or scathed by wrong, should see

A light in nature and in fellowship,

That makes it bright and hopeful. Gay, and free

From outward grief, society doth keep

Sad thoughts away. Where'er we troubled turn,

Men laugh together; so that though to weep

We be inclined, we soon grow pleas'd, soon learn

What great resources for relief and joy

Dwell in the buoyant soul.

New York, April 11th, 1841.




New Series 2:7, p. 4




C.L.R., “A Scrap for the Season,” Periodical Poets, accessed February 24, 2024, https://periodicalpoets.com/items/show/452.


Allowed tags: <p>, <a>, <em>, <strong>, <ul>, <ol>, <li>