I think we are too ready with complaint In this fair world of God's. Had we no hope Indeed beyond the zenith and the slope Of yon gray bank of sky, we might be faint To muse upon eternity's constraint Round our aspirant souls. But since the scope Must widen early, is it well to droop For a few days consumed in loss and taint? O pusillanimous Heart, be comforted,-- And, like a cheerful traveler, take the road, Singing beside the hedge. What if the bread Be bitter in thy inn, and thou unshod To meet the flints?--At least it may be said, Because the way is _short_, I thank Thee, God! --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ THE PROSPECT. Methinks we do as fretful children do, Leaning their faces on the window pane To sigh the glass dim with their own breath's stain, And shut the sky and landscape from their view, And thus, alas! since God the maker drew A mystic separation 'twixt those twain, The life beyond us, and our souls in pain, We miss the prospect which we're called unto. By grief we're fools to use. Be still and strong, O man, my brother! hold thy sobbing breath, And keep thy soul's large window pure from wrong,-- That so, as life's appointment issueth, Thy vision may be clear to watch along The sunset consummation-lights of death. --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ CONSOLATION. All are not taken! there are left behind Living Beloveds, tender looks to bring, And make the daylight still a happy thing, And tender voices to make soft the wind. But if it were not so--if I could find No love in all the world for comforting, Nor any path but hollowly did ring, Where 'dust to dust' the love from life disjoined-- And if before these sepulchres unmoving I stood alone, (as some forsaken lamb Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth) Crying 'Where are ye, O my loved and loving?' I know a voice would sound, 'Daughter, I AM. Can I suffice for HEAVEN, and not for earth?' --_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._ A THOUGHT OVER A CRADLE. I sadden when thou smilest to my smile, Child of my love! I tremble to believe That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue The shadow of my heart will always pass;-- A heart that, from its struggle with the world, Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, And, careless of the staining dust it brings, Asks for its idol! Strange, that flowers of earth Are visited by every air that stirs, And drink its sweetness only, while the child That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven, May take a blemish from the breath of love, And bear the blight forever.