I WONDER if amid this strife, That stabs my heart with pain, The lover's perfect hour of life Will e'er be mine again. The wine is purpling on the hill And beauty knows no ending; But there's a glass I cannot fill Till God hath done His mending. I looked on beauty, cold, austere, And then a maid went by And colored all my whirling year With warmer tints of sky; She left me then without a smile, Without a word of sighing, And now I march an endless mile And watch the colors dying. Chide me not if I linger long Beside a hidden brook And dream it hath a purer song Where one did downward look; For if the Man of Wounded Hands Returned, would He not tarry A tender moment in the lands That knew the feet of Mary! I wonder should a maiden rise With all my lost love's charms Would I find light within her eyes And peace within her arms? Or is there none in all the land To heal my ancient sorrow -- No lip or eye or gentle hand To sweeten my to-morrow! |