The hand that fashioned me, tuned my ear
To chord with the major key,
In the darkest moments of life I hear
Strains of courage, and hope, and cheer
From choirs that I cannot see.
And the music of life seems so inspired
That it will not let me grow sad or tired.
Yet through and under the major strain,
I hear with the passing of years,
The mournful minor measure of pain,
Of souls that struggle and toil in vain
For a goal that never nears.
And the sorrowful cadence of good gone wrong,
Breaks more and more into earth's glad song.
And oft in the dark of the night I wake
And think of sorrowing lives,
And I long to comfort the hearts that ache,
To sweeten the cup that is bitter to take,
And to strengthen each soul that strives.
I long to cry to them 'Do not fear,
Help is coming and aid is near.'
However desolate, weird, or strange
Life's melody sounds to you,
Before to-morrow the air may change,
And the Great Director of music arrange
A programme perfectly new.
And the dirge in minor may suddenly be
Turned into a jubilant song of glee.
Yesterdays. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1916.
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