Life, believe, is not a dream
So dark as sages say;
Oft a little morning rain
Foretells a pleasant day.
Sometimes there are clouds of gloom,
But these are transient all;
If the shower will make the roses bloom,
O why lament its fall?
Rapidly, merrily,
Life’s sunny hours flit by,
Gratefully, cheerily
Enjoy them as they fly!
What though Death at times steps in,
And calls our Best away?
What though sorrow seems to win,
O’er hope, a heavy sway?
Yet Hope again elastic springs,
Unconquered, though she fell;
Still buoyant are her golden wings,
Still strong to bear us well.
Manfully, fearlessly,
The day of trial bear,
For gloriously, victoriously,
Can courage quell despair!

   O Life with the sad seared face,
            I weary of seeing thee,
And thy draggled cloak, and thy hobbling pace,
            And thy too-forced pleasantry!

   I know what thou would’st tell
            Of Death, Time, Destiny—
I have known it long, and know, too, well
            What it all means for me.
 
   But canst thou not array
            Thyself in rare disguise,
And feign like truth, for one mad day,
            That Earth is Paradise?

   I’ll tune me to the mood,
            And mumm with thee till eve;
And maybe what as interlude
            I feign, I shall believe!

O Me! O life! of the questions of these recurring,
Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities fill’d with the foolish,
Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)
Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,
Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and sordid crowds I see around me,
Of the empty and useless years of the rest, with the rest me intertwined,
The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

The past and present wilt—I have fill'd them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?

                      Midnight is come,
And thinly in the deepness of the gloom
Truth rises startle-eyed out of a tomb,
                      And we are dumb.

                      A death-bell tolls,
And we still shudder round the too smooth bed,
For truth makes pallid watch above the dead,
                      Freezing our souls.

                      But day returns,
Light and the garish life, and we are brave,
For Truth sinks wanly down into her grave.
                      Yet the heart yearns.

The prosperous and beautiful 
    To me seem not to wear 
The yoke of conscience masterful, 
    Which galls me everywhere. 

I cannot shake off the god;
    On my neck me makes his seat;
I look at my face in the glass,——
    My eyes his eyeballs meet. 

Enchanters! enchantresses! 
    Your gold makes you seem wise;
The morning mist within your grounds
    More proudly rolls, more softly lies. 

Yet spake yon purple mountain, 
    Yet said yon ancient wood,
That Night or Day, that Love or Crime, 
    Leads all souls to the Good. 

Under a spreading chestnut-tree
     ⁠The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
     With large and sinewy hands,
And the muscles of his brawny arms
     Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
     His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
     He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
     For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
     You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
     With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
     When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
     Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
     And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
     Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
     And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
     He hears his daughter's voice
Singing in the village choir,
     And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice
     Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
     How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
     A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
     Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
     Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
     Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
     For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
     Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
     Each burning deed and thought.