MY PSALM.ByJOHN G. WHITTIER.I mournno more my vanished years:Beneath a tender rain,—An April rain of smiles and tears,—My heart is young again.The west winds blow, and, singing low,I hear the glad streams run;The windows of my soul I throwWide open to the sun.No longer forward nor behindI look in hope or fear;But, grateful, take the good I find,The best of now and here.I plough no more a desert land,To harvest weed and tare;The manna dropping from God’s handRebukes my painful care.I break my pilgrim staff, I layAside the toiling oar;The angel sought so far away,I welcome at my door.The airs of Spring may never playAmong the ripening corn,Nor freshness of the flowers of MayBlow through the Autumn morn;—Yet shall the blue-eyed Gentian lookThrough fringèd lids to Heaven,And the pale Aster in the brookShall see its image given;—The woods shall wear their robes of praise,The south-wind softly sigh;And sweet, calm days, in golden haze,Melt down the amber sky.Not less shall manly deed and wordRebuke an age of wrong;The graven flowers that wreathe the swordMake not the blade less strong.But smiting hands shall learn to heal,To build, as to destroy;Nor less my heart for others feel,That I the more enjoy.All as God wills, who wisely heedsTo give or to withhold,And knoweth more of all my needsThan all my prayers have told.Enough that blessings undeservedHave marked my erring track,—That, wheresoe’er my feet have swerved,His chastening turned me back,—That more and more a ProvidenceOf love is understood,Making the springs of time and senseSweet with eternal good,—That death seems but a covered wayWhich opens into light,Wherein no blinded child can strayBeyond the Father’s sight,—That care and trial seem at last,Through Memory’s sunset air,Like mountain-ranges, overpast,In purple distance fair,—That all the jarring notes of lifeSeem blending in a psalm,And all the angles of its strifeSlow rounding into calm.And so the shadows fall apart,And so the west winds play;And all the windows of my heartI open to the day.* * * * *Overthe winter glaciers,I see the summer glow,And, through the wild piled snow-drift,The warm rosebuds below.R. W. Emerson.
MY PSALM.ByJOHN G. WHITTIER.
I mournno more my vanished years:Beneath a tender rain,—An April rain of smiles and tears,—My heart is young again.The west winds blow, and, singing low,I hear the glad streams run;The windows of my soul I throwWide open to the sun.No longer forward nor behindI look in hope or fear;But, grateful, take the good I find,The best of now and here.I plough no more a desert land,To harvest weed and tare;The manna dropping from God’s handRebukes my painful care.I break my pilgrim staff, I layAside the toiling oar;The angel sought so far away,I welcome at my door.The airs of Spring may never playAmong the ripening corn,Nor freshness of the flowers of MayBlow through the Autumn morn;—Yet shall the blue-eyed Gentian lookThrough fringèd lids to Heaven,And the pale Aster in the brookShall see its image given;—The woods shall wear their robes of praise,The south-wind softly sigh;And sweet, calm days, in golden haze,Melt down the amber sky.Not less shall manly deed and wordRebuke an age of wrong;The graven flowers that wreathe the swordMake not the blade less strong.But smiting hands shall learn to heal,To build, as to destroy;Nor less my heart for others feel,That I the more enjoy.All as God wills, who wisely heedsTo give or to withhold,And knoweth more of all my needsThan all my prayers have told.Enough that blessings undeservedHave marked my erring track,—That, wheresoe’er my feet have swerved,His chastening turned me back,—That more and more a ProvidenceOf love is understood,Making the springs of time and senseSweet with eternal good,—That death seems but a covered wayWhich opens into light,Wherein no blinded child can strayBeyond the Father’s sight,—That care and trial seem at last,Through Memory’s sunset air,Like mountain-ranges, overpast,In purple distance fair,—That all the jarring notes of lifeSeem blending in a psalm,And all the angles of its strifeSlow rounding into calm.And so the shadows fall apart,And so the west winds play;And all the windows of my heartI open to the day.
I mournno more my vanished years:Beneath a tender rain,—An April rain of smiles and tears,—My heart is young again.The west winds blow, and, singing low,I hear the glad streams run;The windows of my soul I throwWide open to the sun.No longer forward nor behindI look in hope or fear;But, grateful, take the good I find,The best of now and here.I plough no more a desert land,To harvest weed and tare;The manna dropping from God’s handRebukes my painful care.I break my pilgrim staff, I layAside the toiling oar;The angel sought so far away,I welcome at my door.The airs of Spring may never playAmong the ripening corn,Nor freshness of the flowers of MayBlow through the Autumn morn;—Yet shall the blue-eyed Gentian lookThrough fringèd lids to Heaven,And the pale Aster in the brookShall see its image given;—The woods shall wear their robes of praise,The south-wind softly sigh;And sweet, calm days, in golden haze,Melt down the amber sky.Not less shall manly deed and wordRebuke an age of wrong;The graven flowers that wreathe the swordMake not the blade less strong.But smiting hands shall learn to heal,To build, as to destroy;Nor less my heart for others feel,That I the more enjoy.All as God wills, who wisely heedsTo give or to withhold,And knoweth more of all my needsThan all my prayers have told.Enough that blessings undeservedHave marked my erring track,—That, wheresoe’er my feet have swerved,His chastening turned me back,—That more and more a ProvidenceOf love is understood,Making the springs of time and senseSweet with eternal good,—That death seems but a covered wayWhich opens into light,Wherein no blinded child can strayBeyond the Father’s sight,—That care and trial seem at last,Through Memory’s sunset air,Like mountain-ranges, overpast,In purple distance fair,—That all the jarring notes of lifeSeem blending in a psalm,And all the angles of its strifeSlow rounding into calm.And so the shadows fall apart,And so the west winds play;And all the windows of my heartI open to the day.
I mournno more my vanished years:Beneath a tender rain,—An April rain of smiles and tears,—My heart is young again.
I mournno more my vanished years:
Beneath a tender rain,—
An April rain of smiles and tears,—
My heart is young again.
The west winds blow, and, singing low,I hear the glad streams run;The windows of my soul I throwWide open to the sun.
The west winds blow, and, singing low,
I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.
No longer forward nor behindI look in hope or fear;But, grateful, take the good I find,The best of now and here.
No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear;
But, grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here.
I plough no more a desert land,To harvest weed and tare;The manna dropping from God’s handRebukes my painful care.
I plough no more a desert land,
To harvest weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God’s hand
Rebukes my painful care.
I break my pilgrim staff, I layAside the toiling oar;The angel sought so far away,I welcome at my door.
I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar;
The angel sought so far away,
I welcome at my door.
The airs of Spring may never playAmong the ripening corn,Nor freshness of the flowers of MayBlow through the Autumn morn;—
The airs of Spring may never play
Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
Blow through the Autumn morn;—
Yet shall the blue-eyed Gentian lookThrough fringèd lids to Heaven,And the pale Aster in the brookShall see its image given;—
Yet shall the blue-eyed Gentian look
Through fringèd lids to Heaven,
And the pale Aster in the brook
Shall see its image given;—
The woods shall wear their robes of praise,The south-wind softly sigh;And sweet, calm days, in golden haze,Melt down the amber sky.
The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
The south-wind softly sigh;
And sweet, calm days, in golden haze,
Melt down the amber sky.
Not less shall manly deed and wordRebuke an age of wrong;The graven flowers that wreathe the swordMake not the blade less strong.
Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of wrong;
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
Make not the blade less strong.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,To build, as to destroy;Nor less my heart for others feel,That I the more enjoy.
But smiting hands shall learn to heal,
To build, as to destroy;
Nor less my heart for others feel,
That I the more enjoy.
All as God wills, who wisely heedsTo give or to withhold,And knoweth more of all my needsThan all my prayers have told.
All as God wills, who wisely heeds
To give or to withhold,
And knoweth more of all my needs
Than all my prayers have told.
Enough that blessings undeservedHave marked my erring track,—That, wheresoe’er my feet have swerved,His chastening turned me back,—
Enough that blessings undeserved
Have marked my erring track,—
That, wheresoe’er my feet have swerved,
His chastening turned me back,—
That more and more a ProvidenceOf love is understood,Making the springs of time and senseSweet with eternal good,—
That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense
Sweet with eternal good,—
That death seems but a covered wayWhich opens into light,Wherein no blinded child can strayBeyond the Father’s sight,—
That death seems but a covered way
Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father’s sight,—
That care and trial seem at last,Through Memory’s sunset air,Like mountain-ranges, overpast,In purple distance fair,—
That care and trial seem at last,
Through Memory’s sunset air,
Like mountain-ranges, overpast,
In purple distance fair,—
That all the jarring notes of lifeSeem blending in a psalm,And all the angles of its strifeSlow rounding into calm.
That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
Slow rounding into calm.
And so the shadows fall apart,And so the west winds play;And all the windows of my heartI open to the day.
And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play;
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day.
* * * * *
Overthe winter glaciers,I see the summer glow,And, through the wild piled snow-drift,The warm rosebuds below.R. W. Emerson.
Overthe winter glaciers,I see the summer glow,And, through the wild piled snow-drift,The warm rosebuds below.R. W. Emerson.
Overthe winter glaciers,I see the summer glow,And, through the wild piled snow-drift,The warm rosebuds below.
Overthe winter glaciers,
I see the summer glow,
And, through the wild piled snow-drift,
The warm rosebuds below.
R. W. Emerson.