Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE WORLD, by ELIZA COOK



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THE WORLD, by             Poet's Biography
First Line: Talk who will of the world as a desert of thrall
Last Line: There are honey-drops, too, for the taste.


Talk who will of the world as a desert of thrall,
Yet, yet there is bloom on the waste;
Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall,
There are honey-drops, too, for the taste.

We murmur and droop should a sorrow-cloud stay,
And note all the shades of our lot;
But the rich rays of sunshine that brighten our way,
Are bask'd in, enjoy'd and forgot.

Those who look on Mortality's ocean aright,
Will not mourn o'er each billow that rolls;
But dwell on the beauties, the glories, the might,
As much as the shipwrecks and shoals.

How thankless is he who remembers alone
All the bitter, the drear and the dark;
Though the raven may scare with its woe-boding tone,
Do we ne'er hear the song of the lark?

We may utter farewell when 't is torture to part,
But in meeting the dear one again
Have we never rejoic'd with that wildness of heart
Which outbalances ages of pain?

Who hath not had moments so laden with bliss,
When the soul in its fulness of love,
Would waver if bidden to choose between this
And the paradise promised above?

Though the eye may be dimmed with its grief-drop awhile,
And the whiten'd lip sigh forth its fear, --
Yet pensive indeed is that face where the smile
Is not oftener seen than the tear!

There are times when the storm-gust may rattle around,
There are spots where the poison-shrub grows,
Yet are there not homes where nought else can be found
But the southwind, the sunshine, and rose?

O haplessly rare is the portion that's ours,
And strange is the path that we take, --
If there spring not beside us a few precious flowers,
To soften the thorn and the brake.

The wail of regret, the rude clashing of strife,
The soul's harmony often may mar, --
But I think we must own, in the discord of Life,
'T is ourselves that oft waken the jar.

Earth is not all fair, yet it is not all gloom;
And the voice of the grateful will tell
That HE who allotted Pain, Death, and the Tomb,
Gave Hope, Health, and the Bridal, as well.

Should Fate do its worst, and my spirit oppress'd,
O'er its own shatter'd happiness pine, --
Let me witness the joy in another's glad breast,
And some pleasure must kindle in mine!

Then say not the world is a desert of thrall,
There is bloom, there is light, on the waste;
Though the chalice of Life hath its acid and gall,
There are honey-drops, too, for the taste.





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