If all our life were one broad
Of sunlight, clear, unclouded;
If all our path were smooth and fair,
By no soft gloom enshrouded;
If all life's flowers were fully
Without the sweet unfolding,
And happiness were rudely
On hands too weak for holding--Should we not miss the twilight hours,
The gentle haze and sadness?
Should we not long for storms and
To break the constant gladness?
If none were sick and none were sad,
What service could we render?
I think if we were always glad,
We scarcely could be tender.
Did our beloved never
Our patient ministration,
Earth would grow cold and miss
Its sweetest consolation;
If sorrow never claimed our heart,
And every wish were granted,
Patience would die, and hope depart--Life would be disenchanted.
And yet in heaven is no more night,
In heaven is no more sorrow!
Such unimagined new
Fresh grace from pain will borrow.
As the poor seed that
Seeks its true life above it,
Not knowing what will there be
When sunbeams kiss and love it,
So we in darkness upward grow,
And look and long for heaven,
But cannot picture it
Till more of light be given.
This beautiful poem was rescued from oblivion by Slason Thompson, who included it in his "The Humbler Poets:
A Collection of Newspaper and Periodical Verse, 1880-1885." Like most such fugitive pieces, it was published anonymously.
The title of the book, of course, is derived from Longfellow's famous lines: "Read from some humbler poet,/Whose songs gushed from his heart,/As showers from the cloud of summer,/ Or tears from the eyelids start."
