by Bayard Taylor
The thread I held has slipped from out my hand:
In this dark labyrinth, without a clew,
Groping for guidance, stricken blind, I stand,
A helpless child that knows not what to do.
When all the glory of the morn was mine,
The sudden night surprised me unawares:
I see no pitying star above me shine,
I hear no voice in answer to my prayers.
At every step, I stumble on the road;
Fain would I rest, the wild hours whirl me on;
What business have I in this blank abode,
Whence Love, and Hope, and even Faith, are gone?
A child of summer, shivering in the cold, --
A son of light, by darkness overcome, --
A bird of air, my broken wings I fold,
A harp of joy, my shattered strings are dumb.
And every gift that Life to me had given
Lies at my feet, in useless fragments trod:
There is no justice or in Earth or Heaven:
There is no pity in the heart of God.
Source:The Poet's Journal
Ticknor and Fields, Boston