Edith Nesbit

The Point of View: II

I

   IN the wood of lost causes, the valley of tears,
      Old hopes, like dead leaves, choke the difficult way;
   Dark pinions fold dank round the soul, and it hears:
      “It is night, it is night, it has never been day;
   Thou hast dreamed of the day, of the rose of delight;
   It was always dead leaves and the heart of the night.
   Drink deep then, and rest, O thou foolish wayfarer,
      For night, like a chalice, holds sleep in her hands.”

II

   Then you drain the dark cup, and, half-drugged as you lie
      In the arms of despair that is masked as delight,
   You thrill to the rush of white wings, and you hear:
      “It is day, it is day, it has never been night!
   Thou hast dreamed of the night and the wood of lost leaves;
   It was always noon, June, and red roses in sheaves,
   Unlock the blind lids, and behold the light-bearer
   Who holds, like a monstrance, the sun in his hands.”