Poems (Angier)/My World
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For works with similar titles, see My World.
MY WORLD.
"What a resource," said the ill-fated Marie Antoinette, "amid the casualties of life, is a well-cultivated mind. One can then be one's own companion and find society in one's own thoughts."
I have a world, a beauteous world,
A world that's all my own;
Ne'er jarred is its soft harmony
By one discordant tone.
A world that's all my own;
Ne'er jarred is its soft harmony
By one discordant tone.
Here cluster round me beings fair,
Bright, living forms of grace;
From earth they come, yet hath there shone
Heaven's light on every face.
Bright, living forms of grace;
From earth they come, yet hath there shone
Heaven's light on every face.
Heart joined to heart, hand clasped in hand,
On tireless feet we roam;
An angel's bliss doth o'er me steal
In my sweet Eden home.
On tireless feet we roam;
An angel's bliss doth o'er me steal
In my sweet Eden home.
When purpose high inspires the breast,
And life hath noble aim,
Lips ne'er need breathe a secret sigh
For honor, wealth, or fame.
And life hath noble aim,
Lips ne'er need breathe a secret sigh
For honor, wealth, or fame.
Unwelcome foe may ne'er intrude
The soul's deep peace to mar;
Nor doth one cloud of doubt enshroud
Faith's ever-beaming star.
The soul's deep peace to mar;
Nor doth one cloud of doubt enshroud
Faith's ever-beaming star.
No setting sun, no waning moon,
In this my world are seen;
Among the flowers, in these fair bowers,
No serpent's trail hath been.
In this my world are seen;
Among the flowers, in these fair bowers,
No serpent's trail hath been.
Through this my world a healing stream
Of heaven-born pity flows;
Green on its banks the tree of Hope
Yields balm for heaviest woes.
Of heaven-born pity flows;
Green on its banks the tree of Hope
Yields balm for heaviest woes.
I leave my world as quits the bird
Its quiet, downy nest,
To cheer with song the darkened home,
And gladden some sad breast.
Its quiet, downy nest,
To cheer with song the darkened home,
And gladden some sad breast.
For sight of sorrow lends a charm
To every poet's lay;
And human harps yield sweetest strains
When Grief's pale fingers play.
To every poet's lay;
And human harps yield sweetest strains
When Grief's pale fingers play.
From venom nectar I distil,
And sparkling honey-dew;
Then hive them in ray own bright world,
Where poison-flower ne'er grew.
And sparkling honey-dew;
Then hive them in ray own bright world,
Where poison-flower ne'er grew.
The loved seem never lost to me,
For in my world they dwell
Whom some call dead are living here,
Where sounds nor dirge nor knell.
For in my world they dwell
Whom some call dead are living here,
Where sounds nor dirge nor knell.
The poet's world—a beauteous world—
Would it to all were given;
But each may share a home more fair
Than his faint type of heaven.
Would it to all were given;
But each may share a home more fair
Than his faint type of heaven.