Trouble.
A Sonnet.
“ For man is born to trouble as the sparks1
Fly upward ;” from the cradle to the grave2
Life is one trouble to avoid its end !3
And if a transient gleam of pleasure marks4
Some happy hours upon life’s passing wave,5
We hail it as a prisoner does a friend6
Bringing assurance of a brighter sphere.7
For we are captives to the power which gave8
The breath of life to us ; and joys descend,9
And holy light, and hopes that cast out fear,10
From our eternal home beyond the skies—11
Gifts all too often unacknowledged here !12
Though troubled thought, like sparks, will upward rise,13
And there still seek, and find, that rest the world denies.14