As tangled driftwood barring up a stream
Against our struggling oars when hope is high
To reach some fair green island we descry
Lying beyond us in the morning's gleam,
And shimmering like a landscape in a dream —
Yet waiting patiently the logs float by,
And all our course lies open to the eye —
So sorrows come and go. What though they seem
A blight whose touch might turn a young head gray,
Joy dawns again. Hope beckons us before.
The tide that pressed against us breaks our bars;
The visionary islands smile once more.
Life, with its rest by night, its work by day,
Forgets the old griefs, and heals their deepest scars.