Poems (Jackson)/A Measure of Hours

by Helen Hunt Jackson

A MEASURE OF HOURS.

NTO those two I called who hold
In hands omnipotent all lives
Of men, and deal, like gods, such doled
Alms as they list, to him who strives
And him who waits alike:
"Oh! show
Me but how measure ye one hour
Of time, that I at least may know
If I lift up this cross what power
I need; and what I win of bliss
If I may dare to pay the cost—
Whole cost, without which I must miss
This joy, and feel my life lost."
Then Joy spoke first, all breathless:
An hour seems like eternity.
"Drink!
My moments hold whole ages. Think
No price too great which buys for thee
This boundless bliss. Such hours as mine
Mock reckonings. The sands stand still.
Drink quickly! I will give the sign
When it is over. Drink thy fill!"

I had scarce tasted when, with face
All changed and voice grown sharp, Joy cried:
"Thine hour is past. Give place! Give place!
New hearts impatiently abide
Thy going. Every man fills up
His own swift measure. Thou hadst thine.
Who weakly drains the empty cup
Drinks only bitter dregs of wine."

Then Sorrow whispered gently: "Take
This burden up. Be not afraid.
An hour is short. Thou scarce wilt wake
To consciousness that I have laid
My hand upon thee, when the hour
Shall all have passed, and, gladder then
For the brief pain's uplifting power,
Thou shalt but pity griefless men."

I grew by minutes changed and old,
As men change not in many years
Of happiness. Lifetimes untold
Seemed dragging lifeless by. My tears
Ran slow for utter weariness
Of weeping; and, when token came
The hour was done, I felt far less
Of joy than woe; as one whose name
Is called, when prison doors have swung
Open too late, reluctantly
Goes forth to find himself among
Strange faces, desolate, though free.

"O cruel brethren, Joy and Grief,"
I cried, "with equal mockery
Your promises meet our belief,
One blossom and one fruit will be
Your harvest! But full well I know
They are not harvest; only seed
Sown in our tears, from which shall grow
In other soil harvest indeed,—

"Harvest in God's great gardens white,
Where cool and living waters run,
And where the spotless Lamb is light,
Instead of pallid moon and sun;
Where constant through the golden air
The tree of life sheds mystic leaf,
Which angels to the nations bear,
Healing alike their joy and grief."