Poetry Archives

How strange, in some brief interval of rest,
  Backward to look on her far-stretching past.
To see how much is conquered and repressed,
  How much is gained in victory at last!
The shadow is not lifted,—but her faith,
Strong from life’s miracles, now turns toward death.

Though much be dark where once rare splendor shone,
  Yet the new light has touched high peaks unguessed
In her gold, mist-bathed dawn, and one by one
  New outlooks loom from many a mountain crest.
She breathes a loftier, purer atmosphere,
And life’s entangled paths grow straight and clear.

Nor will Death prove an all-unwelcome guest;
  The struggle has been toilsome to this end,
Sleep will be sweet, and after labor rest,
  And all will be atoned with him to friend.
Much must be reconciled, much justified,
And yet she feels she will be satisfied.