C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Edna Dean Proctor (1829–1923)
Heaven, O Lord, I Cannot Lose
N
Sweet blows the wind from western calms;
On every bower red roses climb;
The meadows sleep in mingled balms.
Nor stream nor bank, the wayside by,
But lilies float and daisies throng,
Nor space of blue and sunny sky
That is not cleft with soaring song.
O flowery morns, O tuneful eves,
Fly swift! my soul ye cannot fill!
Bring the ripe fruit, the garnered sheaves,
The drifting snows on plain and hill,—
Alike to me fall frosts and dews;
But heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose!
Fond hearts my mirth or mourning share;
And over hope’s horizon line
The future dawns serenely fair.
Yet still, though fervent vow denies,
I know the rapture will not stay:
Some wind of grief or doubt will rise,
And turn my rosy sky to gray;
I shall awake, in rainy morn,
To find my hearth left lone and drear.
Thus, half in sadness, half in scorn,
I let my life burn on as clear,
Though friends grow cold or fond love wooes;
But heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose!
Comes down and broods me with her wings:
I gain from sorrow sweet release;
I mate me with divinest things;
When shapes of guilt and gloom arise,
And far the radiant angel flees,
My song is lost in mournful sighs,
My wine of triumph left but lees.
In vain for me her pinions shine,
And pure, celestial days begin:
Earth’s passion-flowers I still must twine,
Nor braid one beauteous lily in.
Ah! is it good or ill I choose?
But heaven, O Lord, I cannot lose!