At best her skies are clouded o’er,
    And oft she fronts the stinging sleet,
  Or feels on some tempestuous shore
    The storm-waves lash her naked feet.

  Where’er she strays, or musing stands
    By lonesome beach, by turbulent mart,
  We see her pale, half-tremulous hands
    Crossed humbly o’er her aching heart!

  Within, a secret pain she bears,—­
    pain too deep to feel the balm
  An April spirit finds in tears;
    Alas! all cureless griefs are calm!

  Yet in her passionate strength supreme,
    Despair beyond her pathway flies,
  Awed by the softly steadfast beam
    Of sad, but heaven-enamored eyes!

  Who pause to greet her, vaguely seem
    Touched by fine wafts of holier air;
  As those who in some mystic dream
    Talk with the angels unaware!

PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.

* * * * *

SOMETIME.

  Sometime, when all life’s lessons have been learned,
    And sun and stars forevermore have set,
  The things o’er which our weak judgments here have spurned,
    The things o’er which we grieved with lashes wet,
  Will flash before us, out of life’s dark night,
    As stars shine most in deeper tints of blue;
  And we shall see how all God’s plans are right,
    And how what seems reproof was love most true.

  And we shall see how, while we frown and sigh,
    God’s plans go on as best for you and me;
  How, when we called, he heeded not our cry,
    Because his wisdom to the end could see. 
  And e’en as prudent parents disallow
    Too much of sweet to craving babyhood,
  So God, perhaps, is keeping from us now
    Life’s sweetest things, because it seemeth good.

  And if sometimes, commingled with life’s wine,
    We find the wormwood, and rebel and shrink,
  Be sure a wiser hand than yours or mine
    Pours out this potion for our lips to drink. 
  And if some friend we love is lying low,
    Where human kisses cannot reach his face,
  Oh, do not blame the loving Father so,
    But wear your sorrow with obedient grace!

  And you shall shortly know that lengthened breath
    Is not the sweetest gift God sends his friend,
  And that, sometimes, the sable pall of death
    Conceals the fairest bloom his love can send. 
  If we could push ajar the gates of life,
    And stand within, and all God’s workings see,
  We could interpret all this doubt and strife,
    And for each mystery could find a key.

  But not to-day.  Then be content, poor heart! 
    God’s plans like lilies pure and white unfold. 
  We must not tear the close-shut leaves apart,
    Time will reveal the calyxes of gold. 
  And if, through patient toil, we reach the land
    Where tired feet, with sandals loosed, may rest,
  When we shall clearly know and understand,
    I think that we will say, “God knew the best!”