Poem by Constance Caroline Woodhill Naden

Illusions

NOT in the heavens alone is Truth renowned;
Sad human hearts, that seem to love her less,
Even in mutiny her power confess:
We speak in fables, and are compassed round
With poesy, distilling song from sound,
Colour from light, and hope from happiness;
Subliming weakness, yearning, and distress,
To that high faith wherewith our life is crowned.

All fair deceits are prophets of the truth,
E'en as the desert mirage tells a tale
Of palms and wells, real, though far away:
The star-bright hopes that light the world's dim youth
Are not too brilliant, but too silvery pale,
To sparkle still, when dawns the golden day.

1. To a Hyacinth in January
2. The Sister of Mercy
3. May, 1879
4. December, 1879
5. Love Versus Learning

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