What a pity that all our wishes,
And most of our prayers are vain;
When we strive to recall a pleasure,
Or crave to forget a pain.
When the motives we deemed sufficient,
Seem paltry, and mean, and weak;
And the goal we'd have lost our soul for,
Is that which we least would seek.
And the pride of those vast ambitions,
That rendered our hopes so great
Has become but the coal-black cinders,
Consumed in the fire of fate.
What a pity! that blind with folly,
We fancied all incomplete
Every flower of the true contentment,
That grew by our careless feet;
Nor did pause in our path, to gather
The fruits of a gracious Spring;
Or to seek in our hearts the anthem
We called on the world to sing.
Ah, well! maybe God will remember,
As payment of many debts,
The penance of sad non-attainments,
The sackcloth of vain regrets.
And perhaps the Recording Angel
May wipe out the faults of years
With the hem of His shining garment,
Grown damp with a sinner's tears.