Ina D. Coolbrith: Verses about Loss

I can not count my life a loss,
With all its length of evil days.
I hold them only as the dross
About its gold, whose worth outweighs.
For each and all I give Him praise.

For drawing nearer to the brink
That leadeth down to final rest,
I see with clearer eyes, I think,
And much that vexed me and oppressed,
Have learned was right and just and best.

So, though I may but dimly guess
Its far intent, this gift of His
I honor; nor would know the less
One sorrow, or in pain or bliss
Have other than it was and is.

(Song)

Love that came in with the morning
Is fled with the night!
Whither away?
Whither away?
Gone with nor word, with nor warning,
O lost, my Delight!

Into what soul-cleft or hollow
Art vanished from sight,
Out of the day,
Out of the day?
Where the feet of my dreams may not follow,
O lost, my Delight!

The joy, Love, the song and the laughter
Take wing with thy flight,
Forever and aye,
Forever and aye,
Where life, where not death may come after,
Lost, lost, my Delight!

The wind was very sad among the branches,
The moon had hid its light;
I threw my window open to the darkness,
And looked out on the night,

And thought of all the dear old times together-
Days sweet for her sweet sake-
And all I lost in losing her, till, thinking,
My heart seemed like to break.

And O, I said, if I might have some token-
She is, and yet is mine-
Though but a wind-tossed leaf, my soul would take it,
And bless it, for the sign.

And lo! a little wind sighed through the branches,
The moon shone on the land,
And cool and moist with the night-dew, a leaflet
Fluttered against my Hand!

In winter-time one steadfast hope I had:
When rains should cease to fall,
And earth re-summon all
Her blossom-guests, I should again be glad.

And then, my heart unlifted still, I said,
Too pallid and too chill
These skies, wait yet until
The summer’s serene blue smiles overhead.

Its red and rose surrenders to the leaves;
The orchard branches yield
Their fruit, and far afield
The reapers sing amid their gathered sheaves.

The circle of the year is all complete;
And in its wintery hour,
In fruitage or in flower,
I know the world is very fair and sweet.

I know that not from land, or sky, or sea,
The restless spirit takes
Its somber hues, and makes
A discord of God’s golden harmony.

Within, some false note jars the perfect strain
The great Musician meant. . . .
O bird of lost content,
Come back, and build, and brood, and sing again

From the shadowy shores of Dreamland,
In a far and ethereal zone,
I have come unto earth; and I know not
Where the beautiful Day has flown!

For gazing, at early dawning,
Where bright in the radiant East
The glittering sun swam, golden,
Through billows of crimson mist-

My soul floated out on the ether,
Swift-winged and free as the Light-
Nor ever, till dawn grew to darkness,
Returned from its airy flight.

I never shall know of its journey:
I have questioned, all in vain,
The source of the wonderful visions
That are thronging my puzzled brain.

Strange voices; strange, beautiful faces;
Strange fashions of mien and dress,
And words whose mystical meaning
I have striven in vain to guess;

Strange cities, that mirror the sunlight
From minaret, mosque, and dome;
And tropical islands, up-springing
From couches of feathery foam-

All glimmer, and gleam, and glisten,
Floating on in a magical stream,
Yet shadowed, and vague, and misty
As the memory of a dream.

And I stand, as at early dawning;
But where, in the radiant East,
The glittering sun swam, golden,
Through billows of crimson mist,

There is only this soft, white crescent,
And the daisy-faced stars, full-blown
In the garden of Night; and I know not
Where the beautiful Day has flown.