Apportionment

If grief must fill my heart with tears, and Time Abate no hour Of agony with any happy rhyme,-- Be grief my dower.

If days must sing to my attentive soul Joy’s cradle-song, Nor lift one grave note in the gladsome whole, Let joy be long.

Bring me pale flowers of the handselled hills, To braid and lay On coffined brows, sad separation fills With death’s dismay.

Or dreams to drug my soul’s life-cup with pure Ideal love; Glad dreams of life whose beauties aye allure The soul above.

A harp, to hold against my heart and smite With smiles and tears, To sing bereavement or my soul’s delight Through all the years.

Make of my heart a lute, for Love to wake With tripping tune; Or Loss to crush against her breast and break With wilder croon.

Upon the mountains of the morning lands, Where all may look, Let Hope arise and lift with astral hands His starry book.

Up bars of stars, the golden notes of skies, On night’s black scroll Let the moon’s music lift, and with it rise Despair’s dark soul.

Apportion, O my God, the hope or fear, The grief or glee! Thine be the purpose of each smile, each tear Eternally.