BARRY STRATON
THE furrows of life Time is plowing,But we mourn not the Spring which departs,For the husbandman Fate, in his sowing,Scattered love in the soil of our hearts.The sunshine of virtue and beautyShall wake the sweet seedlings to bloom;The warm dews of mercy and dutyShall moisten the tractable loam.Oh, blow, grains of love to the binding!Oh, blush, golden fruit on the hill!'Tis a dreary, long day to the grinding,But a short, pleasant way from the mill.But fondness and faith will be growing,Be the sky clear or cloudy above.When fortune is ripe to the mowingWe shall gather our harvest of love!
THE furrows of life Time is plowing,But we mourn not the Spring which departs,For the husbandman Fate, in his sowing,Scattered love in the soil of our hearts.The sunshine of virtue and beautyShall wake the sweet seedlings to bloom;The warm dews of mercy and dutyShall moisten the tractable loam.Oh, blow, grains of love to the binding!Oh, blush, golden fruit on the hill!'Tis a dreary, long day to the grinding,But a short, pleasant way from the mill.But fondness and faith will be growing,Be the sky clear or cloudy above.When fortune is ripe to the mowingWe shall gather our harvest of love!
THE furrows of life Time is plowing,But we mourn not the Spring which departs,For the husbandman Fate, in his sowing,Scattered love in the soil of our hearts.
THE furrows of life Time is plowing,
But we mourn not the Spring which departs,
For the husbandman Fate, in his sowing,
Scattered love in the soil of our hearts.
The sunshine of virtue and beautyShall wake the sweet seedlings to bloom;The warm dews of mercy and dutyShall moisten the tractable loam.
The sunshine of virtue and beauty
Shall wake the sweet seedlings to bloom;
The warm dews of mercy and duty
Shall moisten the tractable loam.
Oh, blow, grains of love to the binding!Oh, blush, golden fruit on the hill!'Tis a dreary, long day to the grinding,But a short, pleasant way from the mill.
Oh, blow, grains of love to the binding!
Oh, blush, golden fruit on the hill!
'Tis a dreary, long day to the grinding,
But a short, pleasant way from the mill.
But fondness and faith will be growing,Be the sky clear or cloudy above.When fortune is ripe to the mowingWe shall gather our harvest of love!
But fondness and faith will be growing,
Be the sky clear or cloudy above.
When fortune is ripe to the mowing
We shall gather our harvest of love!