ALWAYS when the roses bloom most brightly,
Some sad heart is sure to presage blight;
Always when the breeze is kindliest blowing
There are eyes that look out for a gale;
Always when the bosom’s lord sits lightly
Comes some croaking proverb to affright,
And in sweetest music grieving blindly
Sits the shadow of a sorrow pale.
Though to-day says not a word to sadden,
Still to-morrow’s menace fills my ear.
Less intent on this than that I hie me,
Fearful, eager, all the worst to know,
Missing that which might the moment gladden,
For the prescience of a far-off fear,
Which again and yet again flits by me,
Clouding all the sunshine as I go.
There is manna for the day’s supplying,
There are daily dews and daily balms,
Yet I shrink and shudder to remember
All the desert drought I yet may see.
Past the green oasis fare I, sighing,
Caring not to rest beneath the palms.
All my May is darkened by December,
All my laughter by the tears to be.
Must my life go on thus to its closing?
Lord, hold fast this restless heart of mine;
Put thy arm about me when I shiver,
Make me feel thy presence all the way.
Hope and fear, and travail and reposing,
All by thee are cared for, all are thine,
Quick to help, sufficient to deliver,
Near in sun and shade, in night and day.