The promise of womanhood;
Life is a strange awakening,
And death is a stranger sleep;
We wake from our infant slumber,
And from childhood's roseate dream,
To learn at first vaguely and dimly
That things are not what they seem;
That the bright coals are hot and burning
That our eager fingers grasp,
That we cannot prison the sunbeams
That our hands so long to clasp;
And later, that disappointment
And pain are the price of breath,
And one day we wake to ponder
The dread, dread mystery of death;
And thicker and faster around us
Life's problems like snowflakes fall,
'Till they weigh us down with their burden,
And cover us with their pall;
But the future is dark beyond me,
Not a single year can I plot,
I must do the best before me,
Make the most of my given lot;
Take the pleasure and pain of living
With a cheerful heart and strong,
Nourish the good within me,
And trample the sin and wrong,
And strive, though my feeble striving,
Win never a longed-for prize;
And live, though the boon of living
Be death in a strange disguise.
Forgetting the ideal splendor,
The "might-be," and the "wish," and "guess,"
And the little "ifs" that flutter
Like rose-petals on the grass.
Life is a strange awakening,
And death is a stranger sleep;
We wake from our infant slumber,
And from childhood's roseate dream,
To learn at first vaguely and dimly
That things are not what they seem;
That the bright coals are hot and burning
That our eager fingers grasp,
That we cannot prison the sunbeams
That our hands so long to clasp;
And later, that disappointment
And pain are the price of breath,
And one day we wake to ponder
The dread, dread mystery of death;
And thicker and faster around us
Life's problems like snowflakes fall,
'Till they weigh us down with their burden,
And cover us with their pall;
But the future is dark beyond me,
Not a single year can I plot,
I must do the best before me,
Make the most of my given lot;
Take the pleasure and pain of living
With a cheerful heart and strong,
Nourish the good within me,
And trample the sin and wrong,
And strive, though my feeble striving,
Win never a longed-for prize;
And live, though the boon of living
Be death in a strange disguise.
Forgetting the ideal splendor,
The "might-be," and the "wish," and "guess,"
And the little "ifs" that flutter
Like rose-petals on the grass.
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