The Joy of Incompleteness

If all our life were one broad glare
  Of sunlight clear, unclouded:
If all our path were smooth and fair,
  By no soft gloom enshrouded;
If all life's flowers were fully blown
  Without the sweet unfolding,
And happiness were rudely thrown
  On hands too weak for holding--
Should we not miss the twilight hours,
  The gentle haze and sadness?
Should we not long for storms and showers
  To break the constant gladness?

If none were sick and none were sad,
  What service could we render?
I think if we were always glad
  We scarcely could be tender.
Did our beloved never need
  Our patient ministration,
Earth would grow cold and miss indeed
  Its sweetest consolation:
If sorrow never claimed our heart
  And every wish were granted
Patience would die, and hope depart--
  Life would be disenchanted.

--Albert Crowell