Poem from the Poet-Priest of the South

[Friday13thAngel]

This is by Fr. Abram Joseph Ryan (1836-1886). I read a reference to his poetry in Joseph Pierce's book about Oscar Wilde, where Mr. Wilde acclaimed his poetry during his tour of the US. I later found out that he was the pastor of St. Mary's in Mobile, AL, which is the parish where my high school is. Praise God!





A THOUGHT.

_____________

There never was a valley without a faded flower,
There never was a heaven without some little cloud;
The face of day may flash with light in any morning
hour,
But even soon shall come with her shadow-woven
shroud.


There never was a river without its mist of gray,
There never was a forest without its fallen leaf;
And joy may walk beside us down the windings of our
way,
When, lo! there sounds a footstep, and we meet the
face of grief.

There never was a seashore without its drifting wreck,
There never was an ocean without its moaning wave;
And the golden gleams of glory the Summer sky that
fleck,
Shine where dead stars are sleeping in there azure-
mantled grave.

There never was a streamlet, however crystal clear,
Without a shadow resting in the ripples of its tide;
Hope's brightest robes are broidered with the sable
fringe of fear,
And she lures, but abysses girt her path on either
side.

The shadow of the mountain falls althwart the lowly
plain,
And the shadow of the cloudlet hangs above the
mountain's head,
And the highest hearts and lowest wear the shadow of
some pain,
and the smile has scarcely flitted ere the anguish'd
tear is shed.

For no eyes have there been ever without a weary tear,
And those lips cannot be human which have never
heaved a sigh;
For without the dreary Winter there has never been a
year,
And the tempests hide their terrors in the calmest
Summer sky.

The cradle means the coffin, and the coffin means th
grave;
The mother's song scarce hides the De profundis of
the priest;
You may cull the fairest roses any May-day ever gave,
But they wither while you wear them ere the ending
of your feast.

So this dreary life is passing-and we move amid its
maze,
And we grope along together, half in darkness, half
in light;
And our hearts are often burdened by the mysteries of
our ways,
Which are never all in shadow and are never wholly
bright.

And our dim eyes ask a beacon, and our weary feet a
guide,
And our hearts of all life's mysteries seek the meaning
and the key,
And a cross gleams o'er our pathway---on it hangs the
Crucified,
And He answers all our yearings by the whisper,
"Follow Me."

Life is a burden; bear it;
Life is a duty; dare it;
Life is a thorn-crown; wear it,
Though it break your heart in twain;
Though the burden crush you down;
Close your lips, and hide your pain,
First the cross, and then the crown.


_______________________________________

Here is a "current" poem request from Fr. Ryan:



WILT PRAY FOR ME?
_________

Wilt pray for me?
They tell me I have Fame;
I plead with thee,
Sometimes just fold my name
In beautiful "Hail Mary's!"
And you give me more
Than all the world besides.
It praises Poets for the well-sung lay;
But ah! it hath forgotten how to pray.
It brings to brows of Poets crowns of Pride;
Some win such crown and wear;
Give me, instead, a simple little Prayer.

______________________________:signofcro ss: __

Caritas to you, mia familia!