WERE I A SKILFUL PAINTER.

Were I a skilful painter,

My pencil, not my pen,

Should try to teach thee hope and fear;

And who should blame me then?

Fear of the tide-like darkness

That followeth close behind,

And hope to make thee journey on

In the journey of the mind.

Were I a skilful painter,

What should my painting be?

A tiny spring-bud peeping forth

From a withered wintry tree.

The warm blue sky of summer

Above the mountain snow,

Whence water in an infant stream,

Is trying how to flow.

The dim light of a beacon

Upon a stormy sea,

Where wild waves, ruled by wilder winds,

Yet call themselves the free.

One sunbeam faintly gleaming

Athwart a sullen cloud,

Like dawning peace upon a brow

In angry weeping bowed.

Morn climbing o'er the mountain,

While the vale is full of night,

And a wanderer, looking for the east,

Rejoicing in the sight.

A taper burning dimly

Amid the dawning grey,

And a maiden lifting up her head,

And lo, the coming day!

And thus, were I a painter,

My pencil, not my pen,

Should try to teach thee hope and fear;

And who should blame me then?

Fear of the tide-like darkness

That followeth close behind,

And hope to make thee journey on

In the journey of the mind.