BELIEVE not that your inner eye Can ever in just measure try The worth of Hours as they go by: For every man's weak self, alas! Makes him to see them, while they pass, As through a dim or tinted glass: But if in earnest care you would Mete out to each its part of good, Trust rather to your after-mood. Those surely are not fairly spent, That leave your spirit bowed and bent In sad unrest and ill-content: And more, -- though free from seeming harm, You rest from toil of mind or arm, Or slow retire from Pleasure's charm, -- If then a painful sense comes on Of something wholly lost and gone, Vainly enjoyed, or vainly done, -- Of something from your being's chain Broke off, nor to be linked again By all mere Memory can retain, -- Upon your heart this truth may rise, -- Nothing that altogether dies Suffices man's just destinies: So should we live, that every Hour May die as dies the natural flower, -- A self-reviving thing of power; That every Thought and every Deed May hold within itself the seed Of future good and future meed; Esteeming Sorrow, whose employ Is to develope not destroy, Far better than a barren Joy. |