CONTENT (4) by ANONYMOUS

MY heart and I but lately were at strife.
She fell a-longing for a certain thing
The which I could not give her, and my life
Grew sick and weary with her clamoring.
God knows I would have given my youth's wide scope
To buy my heart but one brief, blessed day
Of the blind bliss she coveted; but hope,
When I appealed to it, turned, dumb, away.
Until hope failed, I did not chide my heart,
But was full tender to her misery, --
I knew how hard and bitter was her part;
But when I saw that good was not for me,
I felt that time and tears were vainly spent;
"Heart," said I, "hope is silent; be content."

Poor heart! She listened, earnest, humble-wise,
While my good angel gave her counsel strong,
Then from the dust and ashes did arise,
And through her trembling lips broke forth a song;
A soothing song, that grew into a strain
Of praise for bliss denied as well as given:
She sang it then to charm a lingering pain,
She sings it now for gladness, morn and even.
She sings it, seeing on life's garden wall
Love's deep red roses in the sunshine stir,
And singing, passes, envying not at all,
Content to feel that love is not for her.
The roses are another's, bloom and scent,
My heart and I have "heart's-ease" -- and content.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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