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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

CHEERFUL CONTENT, by                    
First Line: I know no loneliness of heart, - no shadowy ideal
Last Line: And often think the cup of life for me is full to brimming.
Alternate Author Name(s): Picciola
Subject(s): Contentment


I KNOW no loneliness of heart, -- no shadowy ideal,
No sighing for the unattained, -- the beautiful unreal;
My happiness is ever near in treasures few and small,
My lowly hopes are realized in young fruition all.

And mine the spirit still at home in sorrow and in joy,
That loseth not its sweet content at thought of earth's annoy
The violet, that bides the storm, is freshened in its blue,
And sorrow beats upon the heart to strengthen and renew.

I know not why I do not love what others love on earth,
Nor why what others seem to prize to me is nothing worth,
Nor why I feel so trustful of every one I see,
Until my heart belongs to them more than it does to me.

The flower upon our mantel-shelf, -- my brother's flute at night
The way-worn letter from afar that bringeth pure delight,
The voices of my darling ones that own no parlour tone,
With these to sun my little world, I could not feel alone.

I have an earthly mother, and my home is in her heart,
And evermore I nestle there, though we are far apart;
And earthly sisters too I have, and brothers for my love,
That cluster round me like the stars in the bright heaven above.

In fancy only I can live and love beside them now,
In fancy only I can feel their kisses on my brow:
I cannot see the hands I pressed, the ringlets I have curled;
My head that used to lean on them, is rested on the world.

I know that heaven is near to earth where'er my lot may fall;
I know that they will pray for me, the frailest of them all;
And I, if I were growing gray, should sleep the sleep of youth
For my soul is rocked to slumber on the bosom of their truth

There is a worldly wisdom that preacheth to despise
The chime of youthful feeling, that impulsively replies
To the whisper of affection, wherever it may spring,
And proffer to the gazing world its fragrant blossoming.

The dew refuseth not to bathe the dusty wayside flowers,
Restoring to the faded grass the green of vernal hours;
And though the faith were all disproved another hath professed
The withered soul may be revived upon a loving breast.

I would not blush to give away whatever I possess
Of artless and confiding faith, and woman's tenderness;
I would not blush to wrap my thoughts around one pulse that thrills
With the delicious sense of life, that all my being fills.

Though Love is widow'd of its trust, and weeps the living death
And Genius, bending to its clay, foregoes the ivy wreath,
The only night that I could know would be the soul's eclipse
The guile that worketh at the heart, -- the falsehood on the lips

I love the smallest living thing to tears; and quiet thought
Hath sanctified the beautiful, with every thing inwrought;
I hear a glad philosophy throughout existence hymning,
And often think the cup of life for me is full to brimming.





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