LXXXV.
Poetry is more than verse-making, more than the jingle of words, more than the sing-song of meter.
Sunshine and flowers, brightness and joyousness, the harmonies of the passions and the inspiration of love—these are the poetry of life.
Without poetry, life is a tread-mill; a veil of tears; a dreary waste. Even religion is only a crucifixion—a death to sin—if we have not the resurrection into the new life of joy.
Many of us make hard work of life by bending our backs too much. We get dirt in our eyes by keeping them too near the dust, and we get narrow-minded and selfish by our narrow radius of vision.
To become truly rich we must stand in the dignity of our manhood; walk in the integrity of our calling; and run in the rhythm of a poetic nature. Out of harmony is out of sphere. The dignity, integrity and poetry of life are all lost by inharmony; only the ashes of disappointment are left; but with these we can dance at our work, and turn irksome duties into joyous privileges. Instead of moping in the valley of the shadow of death, we may live in the sunshine, where beautiful flowers and luscious fruits and delicious sweets grow.
Yes; yes; we might as well live in light as in darkness; make life a joyful song as a funeral dirge; live amid glory as shame. With a radiant countenance, a beaming eye, and a loving hand, we can do more work and have more to do; we can get more out of life and have more life to enjoy; we can scatter more sunshine and have more left for ourselves.
Christ came to bring to every toiler, heaven. Let us get into it quickly. It is here—and here only—that we find the poetry of life.