AS on the gauzy wings of fancy flying <br />From some far orb I track our watery sphere, <br />Home of the struggling, suffering, doubting, dying, <br />The silvered globule seems a glistening tear. <br /> <br />But Nature lends her mirror of illusion <br />To win from saddening scenes our age-dimmed eyes, <br />And misty day-dreams blend in sweet confusion <br />The wintry landscape and the summer skies. <br /> <br />So when the iron portal shuts behind us, <br />And life forgets us in its noise and whirl, <br />Visions that shunned the glaring noonday find us, <br />And glimmering starlight shows the gates of pearl. <br /> <br />I come not here your morning hour to sadden, <br />A limping pilgrim, leaning on his staff,— <br />I, who have never deemed it sin to gladden <br />This vale of sorrows with a wholesome laugh. <br /> <br />If word of mine another’s gloom has brightened, <br />Through my dumb lips the heaven-sent message came; <br />If hand of mine another’s task has lightened, <br />It felt the guidance that it dares not claim. <br /> <br />But, O my gentle sisters, O my brothers, <br />These thick-sown snow-flakes hint of toil’s release; <br />These feebler pulses bid me leave to others <br />The tasks once welcome; evening asks for peace. <br /> <br />Time claims his tribute; silence now is golden; <br />Let me not vex the too long suffering lyre; <br />Though to your love untiring still beholden, <br />The curfew tells me—cover up the fire.<br /><br />Oliver Wendell Holmes<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-the-iron-gate/
