by Henry Timrod
To-day's most trivial act may hold the seed
Of future fruitfulness, or future dearth; --
Oh, cherish always every word and deed!
The simplest record of thyself hath worth.
If thou hast ever slighted one old thought,
Beware lest Grief enforce the truth at last;
The time must come wherein thou shalt be taught,
The value and the beauty of the Past.
Not merely as a warner and a guide,
A voice behind thee, sounding to the strife;
But something never to be put aside,
A part and parcel of thy present life.
Not as a distant and a darkened sky,
Through which the stars peep, and the moonbeams glow;
But a surrounding atmosphere, whereby
We live and breathe, sustained in pain and woe.
A Fairy-land, where joy and sorrow kiss --
Each still to each corrective and relief --
Where dim delights are brightened into bliss,
And nothing wholly perishes but Grief.
Ah, me! -- not dies -- no more than spirit dies;
But in a change like death is clothed with wings, --
A serious angel, with entranced eyes,
Looking to far-off and celestial things.
Ticknor And Fields, Boston