Poems (Odom)/Life
For works with similar titles, see Life.
LIFE.
Life is a problem strange and deep,
A hope, a dream, a prayer,—
A breath blown from the Infinite,—
A sigh of the swaying air.
We live, we wake to soul and sense,
The heart beats strong and free,
Our frail ships fling their sails abroad
Over a throbbing sea.
A hope, a dream, a prayer,—
A breath blown from the Infinite,—
A sigh of the swaying air.
We live, we wake to soul and sense,
The heart beats strong and free,
Our frail ships fling their sails abroad
Over a throbbing sea.
Our loving ones and those we love,
The friend and secret foe,
Fill up the book of human life
With joy and pride, or woe.
And when our dear ones drift across
Death's tossing, boundless sea,
We vail our hearts in grief, and weep
That they have ceased to be.
The friend and secret foe,
Fill up the book of human life
With joy and pride, or woe.
And when our dear ones drift across
Death's tossing, boundless sea,
We vail our hearts in grief, and weep
That they have ceased to be.
A little life fast throbbing out,
Some mother's dying child,
Can tear the heart in agony
For words too deep and wild.
A rumpled dress, a little shoe,
A tarnished broken doll,
Can break the seal of twenty years
And all one's grief recall.
Some mother's dying child,
Can tear the heart in agony
For words too deep and wild.
A rumpled dress, a little shoe,
A tarnished broken doll,
Can break the seal of twenty years
And all one's grief recall.
Again the dimpled baby form
Is lying on our breast,
Again the rosy parted lips
Upon our own are pressed;
Once more we take the tiny hands
And fold them in our own,
Our hearts vibrating to the love
We mothers all have known.
Is lying on our breast,
Again the rosy parted lips
Upon our own are pressed;
Once more we take the tiny hands
And fold them in our own,
Our hearts vibrating to the love
We mothers all have known.
The little one we held so dear,
Perhaps has lain for years
Below the daisies and the grass,
Beneath our falling tears.
And many times before we find
The same sweet dreamless rest,
We learn in bitter grief to say:
"God always knows the best."
Perhaps has lain for years
Below the daisies and the grass,
Beneath our falling tears.
And many times before we find
The same sweet dreamless rest,
We learn in bitter grief to say:
"God always knows the best."
When trials gather thick and fast,
When angry clouds arise,
And drape their shadows quite across
Our bending, sunny skies;
When not a gleam of light we see
Shine from a shrouded sky,
How wearily we count the days,
And even wish to die!
When angry clouds arise,
And drape their shadows quite across
Our bending, sunny skies;
When not a gleam of light we see
Shine from a shrouded sky,
How wearily we count the days,
And even wish to die!
When death has stilled the loving heart
That throbbed against our own,
Or paled the leaflets of the rose
That bloomed for us alone;
When we have stood beside the grave
Of husband or of wife,
In that sad hour of wretchedness
"O tell me, what is life?"
That throbbed against our own,
Or paled the leaflets of the rose
That bloomed for us alone;
When we have stood beside the grave
Of husband or of wife,
In that sad hour of wretchedness
"O tell me, what is life?"
Who can recall the dreams and hopes
Of youth's unclouded day,
And weep not over treasures lost
And pleasures swept away?
Yet in our mortal path we find
Sweet, ever-blooming flowers,
That bud and blossom even in
Our latest dying hours.
Of youth's unclouded day,
And weep not over treasures lost
And pleasures swept away?
Yet in our mortal path we find
Sweet, ever-blooming flowers,
That bud and blossom even in
Our latest dying hours.
Some lily on a thornless stem,
Whose spotless waxen bloom
Will watch with bended head beside
Our ashes in the tomb.
Some friend who in our darkest hour
Will bear our burdens too,
And prove himself that Godlike thing—
The trusted, tried, and true.
Whose spotless waxen bloom
Will watch with bended head beside
Our ashes in the tomb.
Some friend who in our darkest hour
Will bear our burdens too,
And prove himself that Godlike thing—
The trusted, tried, and true.
We have our crosses and our crowns,
Our days of shine and shade,
And every heart a secret shrine
Where some dead hope is laid.
But when our course is finished here
And all its work is done,
Then we will find 't was but a dream,
And Life is just begun.
Our days of shine and shade,
And every heart a secret shrine
Where some dead hope is laid.
But when our course is finished here
And all its work is done,
Then we will find 't was but a dream,
And Life is just begun.