The chariot of the dawn rolls inAnd, far above all care,As freely as the gladsome larkMy thought finds upper air.My thought finds upper air with thee:O fear thou not, I pray,That such rare visions of the soulUnfit us for the way,Our feet must journey. ’Tis not so:For look thou—as we soarIs there not glory in the valeWe neversawbefore?Yetwasthere glory in the valeAnd you and I were there—The same blue sky was over head,The same fond, brooding careWas over us: yet we were blindTill Love, like him of old,Laid on our eyes his healing hand,And lo, we now beholdLife as it is. Yet more and more,As time shall roll away,I trow new glories will unfold,We dream not of to-day.My thought finds upper air, my love,And thou art with me there—The glory of the mountain heightsWe’ll carry everywhere.
The chariot of the dawn rolls inAnd, far above all care,As freely as the gladsome larkMy thought finds upper air.My thought finds upper air with thee:O fear thou not, I pray,That such rare visions of the soulUnfit us for the way,Our feet must journey. ’Tis not so:For look thou—as we soarIs there not glory in the valeWe neversawbefore?Yetwasthere glory in the valeAnd you and I were there—The same blue sky was over head,The same fond, brooding careWas over us: yet we were blindTill Love, like him of old,Laid on our eyes his healing hand,And lo, we now beholdLife as it is. Yet more and more,As time shall roll away,I trow new glories will unfold,We dream not of to-day.My thought finds upper air, my love,And thou art with me there—The glory of the mountain heightsWe’ll carry everywhere.
The chariot of the dawn rolls inAnd, far above all care,As freely as the gladsome larkMy thought finds upper air.
My thought finds upper air with thee:O fear thou not, I pray,That such rare visions of the soulUnfit us for the way,
Our feet must journey. ’Tis not so:For look thou—as we soarIs there not glory in the valeWe neversawbefore?
Yetwasthere glory in the valeAnd you and I were there—The same blue sky was over head,The same fond, brooding care
Was over us: yet we were blindTill Love, like him of old,Laid on our eyes his healing hand,And lo, we now behold
Life as it is. Yet more and more,As time shall roll away,I trow new glories will unfold,We dream not of to-day.
My thought finds upper air, my love,And thou art with me there—The glory of the mountain heightsWe’ll carry everywhere.
Like beams of light to darkness,Is fancy, to the real;Lifting the down-cast spiritUnto its high ideal.Dreamers are all about us,On mountain or by sea,And had we no such visions,Less bright this world would be.The aged man is dreamingOf merry boyhood days;Of favorite haunts, and schoolmates,And of their wonted plays.His life wasthenall sunshine,He roamed about at will;And years passed on as smoothly,As glides a laughing rill.But time has brought her burdensOf mingled pain and care;They’ve bent his manly figure,And silvered o’er his hair.Stately is now his bearing,He breathes a freer air;Then call him not from dreamland,For he is happy there.He now beholds the Heavenly,The dear ones gone before;No more are they divided,But with him, as of yore.O, may such glorious visionsOft to his spirit come;For, surely, they are gatewaysUnto that “Heavenly Home.”The future to the youthfulDiffuses brightest beams;All wants and wishes granted,In golden future dreams.O, many fairy castlesThe youthful fancy rears!But when the air dissolves them,Oft come the bitter tears.Still, chide them not for building,Burdens will lighter seem;And life, with all its shadows,Be brighter for the dream.Of what the infant dreameth,The wisest ne’er may know;Yet, they must be in dreamland,When the dimples come and go.Over a faded blossom,Or shining curl, we dream,Till absent forms, through memory,E’en almost present seem.Yes, dreams are fraught with blessings,In love and mercy given;And oft are golden stairways,Which draw us nearer heaven.
Like beams of light to darkness,Is fancy, to the real;Lifting the down-cast spiritUnto its high ideal.Dreamers are all about us,On mountain or by sea,And had we no such visions,Less bright this world would be.The aged man is dreamingOf merry boyhood days;Of favorite haunts, and schoolmates,And of their wonted plays.His life wasthenall sunshine,He roamed about at will;And years passed on as smoothly,As glides a laughing rill.But time has brought her burdensOf mingled pain and care;They’ve bent his manly figure,And silvered o’er his hair.Stately is now his bearing,He breathes a freer air;Then call him not from dreamland,For he is happy there.He now beholds the Heavenly,The dear ones gone before;No more are they divided,But with him, as of yore.O, may such glorious visionsOft to his spirit come;For, surely, they are gatewaysUnto that “Heavenly Home.”The future to the youthfulDiffuses brightest beams;All wants and wishes granted,In golden future dreams.O, many fairy castlesThe youthful fancy rears!But when the air dissolves them,Oft come the bitter tears.Still, chide them not for building,Burdens will lighter seem;And life, with all its shadows,Be brighter for the dream.Of what the infant dreameth,The wisest ne’er may know;Yet, they must be in dreamland,When the dimples come and go.Over a faded blossom,Or shining curl, we dream,Till absent forms, through memory,E’en almost present seem.Yes, dreams are fraught with blessings,In love and mercy given;And oft are golden stairways,Which draw us nearer heaven.
Like beams of light to darkness,Is fancy, to the real;Lifting the down-cast spiritUnto its high ideal.
Dreamers are all about us,On mountain or by sea,And had we no such visions,Less bright this world would be.
The aged man is dreamingOf merry boyhood days;Of favorite haunts, and schoolmates,And of their wonted plays.
His life wasthenall sunshine,He roamed about at will;And years passed on as smoothly,As glides a laughing rill.
But time has brought her burdensOf mingled pain and care;They’ve bent his manly figure,And silvered o’er his hair.
Stately is now his bearing,He breathes a freer air;Then call him not from dreamland,For he is happy there.
He now beholds the Heavenly,The dear ones gone before;No more are they divided,But with him, as of yore.
O, may such glorious visionsOft to his spirit come;For, surely, they are gatewaysUnto that “Heavenly Home.”
The future to the youthfulDiffuses brightest beams;All wants and wishes granted,In golden future dreams.
O, many fairy castlesThe youthful fancy rears!But when the air dissolves them,Oft come the bitter tears.
Still, chide them not for building,Burdens will lighter seem;And life, with all its shadows,Be brighter for the dream.
Of what the infant dreameth,The wisest ne’er may know;Yet, they must be in dreamland,When the dimples come and go.
Over a faded blossom,Or shining curl, we dream,Till absent forms, through memory,E’en almost present seem.
Yes, dreams are fraught with blessings,In love and mercy given;And oft are golden stairways,Which draw us nearer heaven.
As at sea the eager voyagerThoughtfully from shore to shore,Waves farewell to scenes behind him,Welcomes scenes that rise before;So I stand upon Time’s ocean,And, as from my outer viewFades the old year’s face in glory,Dawns the new in roseate hue.Dear old year, forever loyal,Listen to my thought of thee,All thou hast been, all thou now artWilt thou be in memory.Summing up my gain and losses,Do I find my gain is more,Wider vision, richer friendshipsHave been added to my store.Some, who walked with me, have vanished;Yet at memory’s holy shrineDo we meet in sweet communion;Theirs am I, and they are mine.For their influence on my journeyLife is sweeter, lighter care,As the violet’s bloom is brighterWhen the dewdrop sparkles there.Dear Old Year—Lo! thou art vanished,And here, standing in thy place,Is the New Year, full of promise,With the self-same care-free faceThou did’st wear, when first I knew thee.Welcome New Year! Hear my vow:I will trust in all thy future,And will do thy bidding, now.As ye enter with the new year,Young or old, be brave at heart—Life hath need of faithful service,And each soul must bear its part;Sweeter than a nation’s praisesFor high deeds of valor doneIs the simple joy of duty,Is the peace from victory won.
As at sea the eager voyagerThoughtfully from shore to shore,Waves farewell to scenes behind him,Welcomes scenes that rise before;So I stand upon Time’s ocean,And, as from my outer viewFades the old year’s face in glory,Dawns the new in roseate hue.Dear old year, forever loyal,Listen to my thought of thee,All thou hast been, all thou now artWilt thou be in memory.Summing up my gain and losses,Do I find my gain is more,Wider vision, richer friendshipsHave been added to my store.Some, who walked with me, have vanished;Yet at memory’s holy shrineDo we meet in sweet communion;Theirs am I, and they are mine.For their influence on my journeyLife is sweeter, lighter care,As the violet’s bloom is brighterWhen the dewdrop sparkles there.Dear Old Year—Lo! thou art vanished,And here, standing in thy place,Is the New Year, full of promise,With the self-same care-free faceThou did’st wear, when first I knew thee.Welcome New Year! Hear my vow:I will trust in all thy future,And will do thy bidding, now.As ye enter with the new year,Young or old, be brave at heart—Life hath need of faithful service,And each soul must bear its part;Sweeter than a nation’s praisesFor high deeds of valor doneIs the simple joy of duty,Is the peace from victory won.
As at sea the eager voyagerThoughtfully from shore to shore,Waves farewell to scenes behind him,Welcomes scenes that rise before;So I stand upon Time’s ocean,And, as from my outer viewFades the old year’s face in glory,Dawns the new in roseate hue.
Dear old year, forever loyal,Listen to my thought of thee,All thou hast been, all thou now artWilt thou be in memory.Summing up my gain and losses,Do I find my gain is more,Wider vision, richer friendshipsHave been added to my store.
Some, who walked with me, have vanished;Yet at memory’s holy shrineDo we meet in sweet communion;Theirs am I, and they are mine.For their influence on my journeyLife is sweeter, lighter care,As the violet’s bloom is brighterWhen the dewdrop sparkles there.
Dear Old Year—Lo! thou art vanished,And here, standing in thy place,Is the New Year, full of promise,With the self-same care-free faceThou did’st wear, when first I knew thee.Welcome New Year! Hear my vow:I will trust in all thy future,And will do thy bidding, now.
As ye enter with the new year,Young or old, be brave at heart—Life hath need of faithful service,And each soul must bear its part;Sweeter than a nation’s praisesFor high deeds of valor doneIs the simple joy of duty,Is the peace from victory won.
Brave Columbus! Did the BuilderShow to you his wondrous plan,And inspire in you the courageTo reveal it unto man?History shows no braver hero,Living, or beneath the sod—Shows no greater self-denial,Shows no deeper faith in God.
Brave Columbus! Did the BuilderShow to you his wondrous plan,And inspire in you the courageTo reveal it unto man?History shows no braver hero,Living, or beneath the sod—Shows no greater self-denial,Shows no deeper faith in God.
Brave Columbus! Did the BuilderShow to you his wondrous plan,And inspire in you the courageTo reveal it unto man?
History shows no braver hero,Living, or beneath the sod—Shows no greater self-denial,Shows no deeper faith in God.
We never can recall a day;When it is past, it rolls awayInto the lap of time.We might as well attempt to sowOur seed amid the falling snow,And hope for fruitage rare,As, life’s bright spring of action o’er,Amid the present’s din and roarStrive to reclaim the past.Though we should call, with sobs of pain,For the old year to come again,In vain would be our cry.Full many a fault we would correct,And many a scrawl we would reject,Were we to write anew.But, while we wish the year’s return,While for the past our spirits yearn,A cheerful voice exclaims:“He who would reach sublimest heightMust toil by day, and pray by night,And struggle with the tide—Now is the time to carve your fate!Time never lags, though man be late—Lost days will ne’er return.”
We never can recall a day;When it is past, it rolls awayInto the lap of time.We might as well attempt to sowOur seed amid the falling snow,And hope for fruitage rare,As, life’s bright spring of action o’er,Amid the present’s din and roarStrive to reclaim the past.Though we should call, with sobs of pain,For the old year to come again,In vain would be our cry.Full many a fault we would correct,And many a scrawl we would reject,Were we to write anew.But, while we wish the year’s return,While for the past our spirits yearn,A cheerful voice exclaims:“He who would reach sublimest heightMust toil by day, and pray by night,And struggle with the tide—Now is the time to carve your fate!Time never lags, though man be late—Lost days will ne’er return.”
We never can recall a day;When it is past, it rolls awayInto the lap of time.
We might as well attempt to sowOur seed amid the falling snow,And hope for fruitage rare,
As, life’s bright spring of action o’er,Amid the present’s din and roarStrive to reclaim the past.
Though we should call, with sobs of pain,For the old year to come again,In vain would be our cry.
Full many a fault we would correct,And many a scrawl we would reject,Were we to write anew.
But, while we wish the year’s return,While for the past our spirits yearn,A cheerful voice exclaims:
“He who would reach sublimest heightMust toil by day, and pray by night,And struggle with the tide—
Now is the time to carve your fate!Time never lags, though man be late—Lost days will ne’er return.”
While my darling child is sleepingIn her little bed,Mother’s earnest prayer is heapingBlessings on her head.First she prays that God will teach her,How to worthy beOf so sweet a child to love her;Then, to clearly see,Duties of her noble calling—That, as days go by,She may help that soul developAll that’s pure and high.“Make my little darling happy,”Fondly mother prays;Happy as the birds and blossomsThrough the summer days.May God keep her sweet and loving,Strong to battle sin,And, as now she trust in mother,May she trust in Him!
While my darling child is sleepingIn her little bed,Mother’s earnest prayer is heapingBlessings on her head.First she prays that God will teach her,How to worthy beOf so sweet a child to love her;Then, to clearly see,Duties of her noble calling—That, as days go by,She may help that soul developAll that’s pure and high.“Make my little darling happy,”Fondly mother prays;Happy as the birds and blossomsThrough the summer days.May God keep her sweet and loving,Strong to battle sin,And, as now she trust in mother,May she trust in Him!
While my darling child is sleepingIn her little bed,Mother’s earnest prayer is heapingBlessings on her head.
First she prays that God will teach her,How to worthy beOf so sweet a child to love her;Then, to clearly see,
Duties of her noble calling—That, as days go by,She may help that soul developAll that’s pure and high.
“Make my little darling happy,”Fondly mother prays;Happy as the birds and blossomsThrough the summer days.
May God keep her sweet and loving,Strong to battle sin,And, as now she trust in mother,May she trust in Him!
How slowly you creep on—tick faster, clock!One that I love is nigh; when he is comeYou may cease ticking—little will I careFor measurement of time!ThenI’ll not peerInto your face and question, “what’s the hour?”If you withhold the telling, less my blame,For in that world of love, where soul meets soul,Time is not measured by the pendulum’s swing,But by quick pulse-beats. One that Iloveis nigh;What mean those words? Upon the silent airThey fall, and strike upon my listening earIn echoing tones. “One that I love is nigh!”How strange that world of love, and yet, how fair;To once have lived there is to catch a glintOf the Eternal Brightness.Naught can separateTwo souls that love. If I could fetters forgeTo bind his heart to mine, by such slight threadsAs spiders spin, I would not do it. LoveIs loftiest in his flight when free of wing.O, is not love,In its eternal might, the power that bindsAll worlds together?
How slowly you creep on—tick faster, clock!One that I love is nigh; when he is comeYou may cease ticking—little will I careFor measurement of time!ThenI’ll not peerInto your face and question, “what’s the hour?”If you withhold the telling, less my blame,For in that world of love, where soul meets soul,Time is not measured by the pendulum’s swing,But by quick pulse-beats. One that Iloveis nigh;What mean those words? Upon the silent airThey fall, and strike upon my listening earIn echoing tones. “One that I love is nigh!”How strange that world of love, and yet, how fair;To once have lived there is to catch a glintOf the Eternal Brightness.Naught can separateTwo souls that love. If I could fetters forgeTo bind his heart to mine, by such slight threadsAs spiders spin, I would not do it. LoveIs loftiest in his flight when free of wing.O, is not love,In its eternal might, the power that bindsAll worlds together?
How slowly you creep on—tick faster, clock!One that I love is nigh; when he is comeYou may cease ticking—little will I careFor measurement of time!ThenI’ll not peerInto your face and question, “what’s the hour?”If you withhold the telling, less my blame,For in that world of love, where soul meets soul,Time is not measured by the pendulum’s swing,But by quick pulse-beats. One that Iloveis nigh;What mean those words? Upon the silent airThey fall, and strike upon my listening earIn echoing tones. “One that I love is nigh!”How strange that world of love, and yet, how fair;To once have lived there is to catch a glintOf the Eternal Brightness.
Naught can separateTwo souls that love. If I could fetters forgeTo bind his heart to mine, by such slight threadsAs spiders spin, I would not do it. LoveIs loftiest in his flight when free of wing.
O, is not love,In its eternal might, the power that bindsAll worlds together?
O lovely rosebud, thou art more to meThan what men call thee; for a mysteryAs fathomless as ocean in thy breastIs folded with each petal, I, in questOf knowledge, do most reverentlyApproach thy presence-chamber. Thou shalt beMy teacher: I am weary grown of booksAnd speech of men. Lo! something in thy looksInspires new courage. O reveal to meThe secret of thy being! I may seeThy beauty, scent thy sweetness; yet thou artE’en more than these, for thou dost play a partIn life’s grand mystr’y. O is’t given thee,The power to solve, what is denied to me?Did’st see, or only feel, that Hand of mightThat touched thee at the Spring-dawn, or was lightDenied thee then? Rare gift of light—to me,Sublimest type of immortality.At thy first flush of crimson I was nighTo watch thy coming—what no human eyeMight hope to witness. And lo, silently,As stars find birth thou didst appear to meIn form perfection, in thy charm of dressPassing all wonder in thy loveliness.Still thou art silent to my listening ear,But deep within my consciousness, I hear“Lo! beauty, love and truth, are one with HimWho beams in radiance, hides in shadows dim.”What though thy birthplace be the humble sod,Thy life and mine are, surely, one with God!
O lovely rosebud, thou art more to meThan what men call thee; for a mysteryAs fathomless as ocean in thy breastIs folded with each petal, I, in questOf knowledge, do most reverentlyApproach thy presence-chamber. Thou shalt beMy teacher: I am weary grown of booksAnd speech of men. Lo! something in thy looksInspires new courage. O reveal to meThe secret of thy being! I may seeThy beauty, scent thy sweetness; yet thou artE’en more than these, for thou dost play a partIn life’s grand mystr’y. O is’t given thee,The power to solve, what is denied to me?Did’st see, or only feel, that Hand of mightThat touched thee at the Spring-dawn, or was lightDenied thee then? Rare gift of light—to me,Sublimest type of immortality.At thy first flush of crimson I was nighTo watch thy coming—what no human eyeMight hope to witness. And lo, silently,As stars find birth thou didst appear to meIn form perfection, in thy charm of dressPassing all wonder in thy loveliness.Still thou art silent to my listening ear,But deep within my consciousness, I hear“Lo! beauty, love and truth, are one with HimWho beams in radiance, hides in shadows dim.”What though thy birthplace be the humble sod,Thy life and mine are, surely, one with God!
O lovely rosebud, thou art more to meThan what men call thee; for a mysteryAs fathomless as ocean in thy breastIs folded with each petal, I, in questOf knowledge, do most reverentlyApproach thy presence-chamber. Thou shalt beMy teacher: I am weary grown of booksAnd speech of men. Lo! something in thy looksInspires new courage. O reveal to meThe secret of thy being! I may seeThy beauty, scent thy sweetness; yet thou artE’en more than these, for thou dost play a partIn life’s grand mystr’y. O is’t given thee,The power to solve, what is denied to me?Did’st see, or only feel, that Hand of mightThat touched thee at the Spring-dawn, or was lightDenied thee then? Rare gift of light—to me,Sublimest type of immortality.
At thy first flush of crimson I was nighTo watch thy coming—what no human eyeMight hope to witness. And lo, silently,As stars find birth thou didst appear to meIn form perfection, in thy charm of dressPassing all wonder in thy loveliness.Still thou art silent to my listening ear,But deep within my consciousness, I hear“Lo! beauty, love and truth, are one with HimWho beams in radiance, hides in shadows dim.”What though thy birthplace be the humble sod,Thy life and mine are, surely, one with God!
Shine out, Sun, in all your splendor,On this dreary Autumn day—With your warm lips, kiss the cold earth—One I love is on the wayTo my waiting arms—O kiss itTill the very air shall beTempered to the breath of Heaven.I would have my loved one see,That the heart of all things pulseth,As in perfect unison,Just as we have felt our hearts beatWhen the twain seemed heart of one.Night will drop her sable mantle,E’er my loved-one comes, I know;Send out little stars to greet him,’Fuse them with a wond’rous glow.One is coming, O my Father,In the love of whom I seeThee, the source of all true loving,And through whom I come to Thee—Come to Thee with deep thanksgiving,For Thy more than wond’rous care;O’er the precious seed we plantedIn the genial springtime fair—“Many seeds fall short of issue.”Yes, my Father, this I know;But we’ve somehow felt and trusted,With our seed, it were not so.We are longing for the fruitage,Hopefully, we trust and pray,Pray with deepest sense of hunger;Father, turn us not away!“Can’st not trust a little longer?”Yes, my Father, long and late—Till the snow falls on the green-swardWe can trust, and we can wait.
Shine out, Sun, in all your splendor,On this dreary Autumn day—With your warm lips, kiss the cold earth—One I love is on the wayTo my waiting arms—O kiss itTill the very air shall beTempered to the breath of Heaven.I would have my loved one see,That the heart of all things pulseth,As in perfect unison,Just as we have felt our hearts beatWhen the twain seemed heart of one.Night will drop her sable mantle,E’er my loved-one comes, I know;Send out little stars to greet him,’Fuse them with a wond’rous glow.One is coming, O my Father,In the love of whom I seeThee, the source of all true loving,And through whom I come to Thee—Come to Thee with deep thanksgiving,For Thy more than wond’rous care;O’er the precious seed we plantedIn the genial springtime fair—“Many seeds fall short of issue.”Yes, my Father, this I know;But we’ve somehow felt and trusted,With our seed, it were not so.We are longing for the fruitage,Hopefully, we trust and pray,Pray with deepest sense of hunger;Father, turn us not away!“Can’st not trust a little longer?”Yes, my Father, long and late—Till the snow falls on the green-swardWe can trust, and we can wait.
Shine out, Sun, in all your splendor,On this dreary Autumn day—With your warm lips, kiss the cold earth—One I love is on the wayTo my waiting arms—O kiss itTill the very air shall beTempered to the breath of Heaven.I would have my loved one see,That the heart of all things pulseth,As in perfect unison,Just as we have felt our hearts beatWhen the twain seemed heart of one.Night will drop her sable mantle,E’er my loved-one comes, I know;Send out little stars to greet him,’Fuse them with a wond’rous glow.One is coming, O my Father,In the love of whom I seeThee, the source of all true loving,And through whom I come to Thee—Come to Thee with deep thanksgiving,For Thy more than wond’rous care;O’er the precious seed we plantedIn the genial springtime fair—“Many seeds fall short of issue.”Yes, my Father, this I know;But we’ve somehow felt and trusted,With our seed, it were not so.We are longing for the fruitage,Hopefully, we trust and pray,Pray with deepest sense of hunger;Father, turn us not away!“Can’st not trust a little longer?”Yes, my Father, long and late—Till the snow falls on the green-swardWe can trust, and we can wait.
O, beautiful blue-fringed gentian bloom,Woulds’t know why I care for you?You were plucked for me by a friendly handFrom the hillside where you grew.How could you come up from the brown earthAnd be such a gorgeous thing?Did mother nature color your gown,When she tinted the blue bird’s wing?Or did the rain drops into your buds,Bring down the blue of the sky?Yea, He who painted the rain-bow’s stripes,E’en the waysides, beautify.A dearer spot is your woodland home,Where the pine trees lull to rest;Where the sweet Spring-blossoms come again,And the song-birds love to nest.To drop your seed, in the soft brown earthWith your kindred little flower,Was that your dream ere you were pluckedTo wither in an hour?“Glad am I to be the messengerOf tender thoughts,” you say,“And to cheer the sick and sorrowing onesIs my dearest wish, alway.”Then tenderly, little blossom of blue,I’ll fold you away with care,You came, a messenger of love,And found me in dispair.You brought the sunshine and summer shower,The bird song and hum of the bee,The noisy stream and the silent lake,And the balsam from the tree.* * * * * * *And now all seems good, for all seems God,I, too, have touched the hemOf the seamless robe of his great love,For lo! I am well again.
O, beautiful blue-fringed gentian bloom,Woulds’t know why I care for you?You were plucked for me by a friendly handFrom the hillside where you grew.How could you come up from the brown earthAnd be such a gorgeous thing?Did mother nature color your gown,When she tinted the blue bird’s wing?Or did the rain drops into your buds,Bring down the blue of the sky?Yea, He who painted the rain-bow’s stripes,E’en the waysides, beautify.A dearer spot is your woodland home,Where the pine trees lull to rest;Where the sweet Spring-blossoms come again,And the song-birds love to nest.To drop your seed, in the soft brown earthWith your kindred little flower,Was that your dream ere you were pluckedTo wither in an hour?“Glad am I to be the messengerOf tender thoughts,” you say,“And to cheer the sick and sorrowing onesIs my dearest wish, alway.”Then tenderly, little blossom of blue,I’ll fold you away with care,You came, a messenger of love,And found me in dispair.You brought the sunshine and summer shower,The bird song and hum of the bee,The noisy stream and the silent lake,And the balsam from the tree.* * * * * * *And now all seems good, for all seems God,I, too, have touched the hemOf the seamless robe of his great love,For lo! I am well again.
O, beautiful blue-fringed gentian bloom,Woulds’t know why I care for you?You were plucked for me by a friendly handFrom the hillside where you grew.
How could you come up from the brown earthAnd be such a gorgeous thing?Did mother nature color your gown,When she tinted the blue bird’s wing?
Or did the rain drops into your buds,Bring down the blue of the sky?Yea, He who painted the rain-bow’s stripes,E’en the waysides, beautify.
A dearer spot is your woodland home,Where the pine trees lull to rest;Where the sweet Spring-blossoms come again,And the song-birds love to nest.
To drop your seed, in the soft brown earthWith your kindred little flower,Was that your dream ere you were pluckedTo wither in an hour?
“Glad am I to be the messengerOf tender thoughts,” you say,“And to cheer the sick and sorrowing onesIs my dearest wish, alway.”
Then tenderly, little blossom of blue,I’ll fold you away with care,You came, a messenger of love,And found me in dispair.
You brought the sunshine and summer shower,The bird song and hum of the bee,The noisy stream and the silent lake,And the balsam from the tree.* * * * * * *And now all seems good, for all seems God,I, too, have touched the hemOf the seamless robe of his great love,For lo! I am well again.
I could not let thee go with DeathIt seems to me;Life never meant what now it meansSince loving thee.I could not go alone with Death;But by thy side,Methinks I could lie down content,E’en as thy bride.To fill the measure of thy needDare I aspire—Nor is there longing in my soulFor mission higher.To fill the measure of thy need—Dost thou not know,The measure of my own deep needWould but o’erflow?
I could not let thee go with DeathIt seems to me;Life never meant what now it meansSince loving thee.I could not go alone with Death;But by thy side,Methinks I could lie down content,E’en as thy bride.To fill the measure of thy needDare I aspire—Nor is there longing in my soulFor mission higher.To fill the measure of thy need—Dost thou not know,The measure of my own deep needWould but o’erflow?
I could not let thee go with DeathIt seems to me;Life never meant what now it meansSince loving thee.
I could not go alone with Death;But by thy side,Methinks I could lie down content,E’en as thy bride.
To fill the measure of thy needDare I aspire—Nor is there longing in my soulFor mission higher.
To fill the measure of thy need—Dost thou not know,The measure of my own deep needWould but o’erflow?
A happy Christmas? Nay, far more shall beMy wish for you. I know how happinessFlits in and out of our poor human lives,Even as humming birds flit in and outThe upturned lily’s cup, or April’s sunshinePierces through the clouds only to vanish.I own her magic touch, for she has beenMy guest, and she wrought many a miracle.I mind how she transformed the common thingsOf life, and how she flung a glory o’erThe future, till my dreams of paradiseSeemed all fulfilled.After the storm of battleCometh peace. Since I have heard her voice,And felt the touch of her soft wings uponMy troubled spirit, I have ceased to prayFor happiness’ return, but I awaitHer coming—grateful if she rarely comeAnd briefly stay.And so my wish for youShall be my high’st prayer, that peace, God’s peace,May enter through the portals of your life,And there abide, your guest, forevermore.
A happy Christmas? Nay, far more shall beMy wish for you. I know how happinessFlits in and out of our poor human lives,Even as humming birds flit in and outThe upturned lily’s cup, or April’s sunshinePierces through the clouds only to vanish.I own her magic touch, for she has beenMy guest, and she wrought many a miracle.I mind how she transformed the common thingsOf life, and how she flung a glory o’erThe future, till my dreams of paradiseSeemed all fulfilled.After the storm of battleCometh peace. Since I have heard her voice,And felt the touch of her soft wings uponMy troubled spirit, I have ceased to prayFor happiness’ return, but I awaitHer coming—grateful if she rarely comeAnd briefly stay.And so my wish for youShall be my high’st prayer, that peace, God’s peace,May enter through the portals of your life,And there abide, your guest, forevermore.
A happy Christmas? Nay, far more shall beMy wish for you. I know how happinessFlits in and out of our poor human lives,Even as humming birds flit in and outThe upturned lily’s cup, or April’s sunshinePierces through the clouds only to vanish.I own her magic touch, for she has beenMy guest, and she wrought many a miracle.I mind how she transformed the common thingsOf life, and how she flung a glory o’erThe future, till my dreams of paradiseSeemed all fulfilled.
After the storm of battleCometh peace. Since I have heard her voice,And felt the touch of her soft wings uponMy troubled spirit, I have ceased to prayFor happiness’ return, but I awaitHer coming—grateful if she rarely comeAnd briefly stay.
And so my wish for youShall be my high’st prayer, that peace, God’s peace,May enter through the portals of your life,And there abide, your guest, forevermore.
I pinned thee, Rosebud, on his coatWhen thou wert fresh and fair,And I recall thou did’st exhaleFor us a fragrance rare.With reverent touch, to-night I foldThy withered leaves with careAbout this lifeless heart of thine,And breathe a grateful prayer.O tell me, Rosebud, wert thou deafTo all we said that night;Or did’st thou feel those kisses warmThat thrilled us with delight?Thy lingering breath is sweet to meThy beauty is not fled,And while thou live’st in memoryI will not call thee dead.
I pinned thee, Rosebud, on his coatWhen thou wert fresh and fair,And I recall thou did’st exhaleFor us a fragrance rare.With reverent touch, to-night I foldThy withered leaves with careAbout this lifeless heart of thine,And breathe a grateful prayer.O tell me, Rosebud, wert thou deafTo all we said that night;Or did’st thou feel those kisses warmThat thrilled us with delight?Thy lingering breath is sweet to meThy beauty is not fled,And while thou live’st in memoryI will not call thee dead.
I pinned thee, Rosebud, on his coatWhen thou wert fresh and fair,And I recall thou did’st exhaleFor us a fragrance rare.
With reverent touch, to-night I foldThy withered leaves with careAbout this lifeless heart of thine,And breathe a grateful prayer.
O tell me, Rosebud, wert thou deafTo all we said that night;Or did’st thou feel those kisses warmThat thrilled us with delight?
Thy lingering breath is sweet to meThy beauty is not fled,And while thou live’st in memoryI will not call thee dead.
How helpful to my life are forest trees!Their beauty charms me, while their strength sustainsMy weakness, and to be a day with themIs as a sweet communion-day with God.How, like a strong man, stands the sturdy oak,Mightier than all his fellows; yet he seemsTo boast, not strength inherited, so muchAs from fierce battling with the elements,Relying not on Providence alone,But on himself—remembering the past,And how from feebleness he grew to strength.Was ever king in purple and in goldSo grand as they in autumn’s coloring?A most inspiring lesson to my lifeTheir beauty teacher. In it, I beholdA type of what this human life should beWhen the end cometh.Faces, I have seen,That speak to me, e’en as these autumn leaves,Of a rich harvest safely garnered in.Would autumn leaves be just as richly dyed,Did only sunshine and warm summer showersFall on them, and the dreary days come not?But e’en as glory of the king may fade,Or he be robbed of all his rich attire,So fade and pass away their glories all,While ever and anon the drear winds sighA requiem of sadness. Yet, aboveThe dead leaves rustling, do the days go on,And spring-time gladness will return again.O, in their hours of calm, do trees not dreamOf the bright days to come of bud and bloom?Thus do they speak to me, and seem to teachThe wondrous mystery of life and death.The first spring dandelion’s bloom is moreTo me than all the written word; it speaksDirectly to the soul, and seem to beThe voice of God. It is a thing of life,And what can better solve the mystery?It is a proof of promises fulfilled,And bids us trust, unfalteringly, whenAgain the dead leaves rustle ’neath our feet,And the cold snow-flakes cover all we love.O God, so many paths lead unto Thee,’Twere strange if any soul should miss the way!
How helpful to my life are forest trees!Their beauty charms me, while their strength sustainsMy weakness, and to be a day with themIs as a sweet communion-day with God.How, like a strong man, stands the sturdy oak,Mightier than all his fellows; yet he seemsTo boast, not strength inherited, so muchAs from fierce battling with the elements,Relying not on Providence alone,But on himself—remembering the past,And how from feebleness he grew to strength.Was ever king in purple and in goldSo grand as they in autumn’s coloring?A most inspiring lesson to my lifeTheir beauty teacher. In it, I beholdA type of what this human life should beWhen the end cometh.Faces, I have seen,That speak to me, e’en as these autumn leaves,Of a rich harvest safely garnered in.Would autumn leaves be just as richly dyed,Did only sunshine and warm summer showersFall on them, and the dreary days come not?But e’en as glory of the king may fade,Or he be robbed of all his rich attire,So fade and pass away their glories all,While ever and anon the drear winds sighA requiem of sadness. Yet, aboveThe dead leaves rustling, do the days go on,And spring-time gladness will return again.O, in their hours of calm, do trees not dreamOf the bright days to come of bud and bloom?Thus do they speak to me, and seem to teachThe wondrous mystery of life and death.The first spring dandelion’s bloom is moreTo me than all the written word; it speaksDirectly to the soul, and seem to beThe voice of God. It is a thing of life,And what can better solve the mystery?It is a proof of promises fulfilled,And bids us trust, unfalteringly, whenAgain the dead leaves rustle ’neath our feet,And the cold snow-flakes cover all we love.O God, so many paths lead unto Thee,’Twere strange if any soul should miss the way!
How helpful to my life are forest trees!Their beauty charms me, while their strength sustainsMy weakness, and to be a day with themIs as a sweet communion-day with God.How, like a strong man, stands the sturdy oak,Mightier than all his fellows; yet he seemsTo boast, not strength inherited, so muchAs from fierce battling with the elements,Relying not on Providence alone,But on himself—remembering the past,And how from feebleness he grew to strength.Was ever king in purple and in goldSo grand as they in autumn’s coloring?A most inspiring lesson to my lifeTheir beauty teacher. In it, I beholdA type of what this human life should beWhen the end cometh.
Faces, I have seen,That speak to me, e’en as these autumn leaves,Of a rich harvest safely garnered in.Would autumn leaves be just as richly dyed,Did only sunshine and warm summer showersFall on them, and the dreary days come not?But e’en as glory of the king may fade,Or he be robbed of all his rich attire,So fade and pass away their glories all,While ever and anon the drear winds sighA requiem of sadness. Yet, aboveThe dead leaves rustling, do the days go on,And spring-time gladness will return again.O, in their hours of calm, do trees not dreamOf the bright days to come of bud and bloom?Thus do they speak to me, and seem to teachThe wondrous mystery of life and death.The first spring dandelion’s bloom is moreTo me than all the written word; it speaksDirectly to the soul, and seem to beThe voice of God. It is a thing of life,And what can better solve the mystery?It is a proof of promises fulfilled,And bids us trust, unfalteringly, whenAgain the dead leaves rustle ’neath our feet,And the cold snow-flakes cover all we love.
O God, so many paths lead unto Thee,’Twere strange if any soul should miss the way!