Achsa White Sprague

Nov. 17, 1827 - Jul. 6, 1862

 

Dark Hours

by Achsa White Sprague

I'm weary of this dull, cold earth,
So full of pain and woe; --
Nought save a dreary weight of care
Ere greets me as I go.

My path grows dark on every side;
No ray of light is there,
Save Hope's pale glimmering light that scarce
Can save me from despair.

Along the daily path of some,
The gifts of Fortune free,
Lie scattered, like the pearly dew
On blossom, leaf, and tree.

But mine winds through a tangled way,
A dark and dreary wild,
Of hope deferred, of sickening cares,
Where fortune never smiles.

I may not join the festive mirth
Of the bright and joyous throng,
Where beauty, wit, and gladness, reign,
And the magic tone of song.

I may not range the valleys wide
To cull the fairest flowers,
Or while some leisure hour away
Beneath the forest bowers.

I may not climb the rocky steep,
At twilight's hour so still,
There sit and let wild fancy stray
Far onward at its will.

But I must pass long hours of gloom,
When all around is bright,
For o'er my form Disease has lain
Its withering, sickening blight.

Yet I could bear my dreary lot,
With scarce one murmuring thought,
Might I but drink at Science's fount
A deep, soul-filling draught;

Might I but read the thrilling page
Of ancient, mystic lore,
And learn the many deeds of those
Who lived in days of yore;

Or clothe the bright and glowing thought
With deep and burning words,
That make the heart with rapture thrill
Whene'er the tone is heard.

An early poem, composed during sickness.

Source:

The Poet And Other Poems.
Copyright 1864
Boston: William White And Co.,
158 Washington Street.
 
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