WHICH is the truth — the fierce, cold wind that wildly
Raves at my window in the storm’s mad din,
Or the sweet voice ruling the red glow mildly
And merrily within?
Which is the truth — the poignant pangs and sorrows
That wring the soul and pierce the flesh of man,
Or the bright joys and dreams of rapturous morrows
That gild life’s little span ?
And shall my tears flow like a mimic river,
Or shall my face be lit with ceaseless smile?
Ah, heaven is full of happiness forever,—
Here let me weep awhile!
Celeste M. A. Winslow.