Poems (Hoffman)/Life's Possibilities
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LIFE'S POSSIBILITIES.
O could I have the choosing
Of what my life should be,
I would make it all so lovely,
So grand, and broad, and free,
So strong in its high endeavor,
So sweet in its harmony.
Over and over and over
Will the useless wish repeat,
I have hushed it, bravely crushed it
Like a flower beneath my feet,
But only to make its fragrance
Grow stronger and more sweet.
What would my life be think you
Could I sit me down and plan
For myself each year and moment
That maketh the earthly span?
O, the perfect joy of living
With never a pain or care,
With never a blighted prospect,
And never a chill despair,
With never a weary burden,
Of thankless toil to bear!
I would make it a path of beauty,
Where loveliest flowers would grow;
I would make it a path of duty
Where an angel would gladly go,
I would cast all the sin and sorrow,
All the dread of my heart aside,
No evil to bear or borrow,
No triumph to be denied;
I would spend all the days in winning
Life's noblest and grandest good,
I would miss all the clouds that darken
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.
Of what my life should be,
I would make it all so lovely,
So grand, and broad, and free,
So strong in its high endeavor,
So sweet in its harmony.
Over and over and over
Will the useless wish repeat,
I have hushed it, bravely crushed it
Like a flower beneath my feet,
But only to make its fragrance
Grow stronger and more sweet.
What would my life be think you
Could I sit me down and plan
For myself each year and moment
That maketh the earthly span?
O, the perfect joy of living
With never a pain or care,
With never a blighted prospect,
And never a chill despair,
With never a weary burden,
Of thankless toil to bear!
I would make it a path of beauty,
Where loveliest flowers would grow;
I would make it a path of duty
Where an angel would gladly go,
I would cast all the sin and sorrow,
All the dread of my heart aside,
No evil to bear or borrow,
No triumph to be denied;
I would spend all the days in winning
Life's noblest and grandest good,
I would miss all the clouds that darken
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.