How wonderful he seems to me,Now that the lessons are all read,And, smiling through the stillness dim,The child I taught lies dead!I was his teacher yesterday—Now, could his silent lips unclose,What lessons might he teach to meOf the vast truth he knows!Last week he bent his anxious browsO’er maps with puzzling Poles and Zone;Now he, perchance, knows more than allThe scientists have known.“Death humbleth all”—ah, say not so!The man we scorn, the child we teachDeath in a moment places farPast all earth’s lore can reach.Death bringeth men unto their own!He tears aside Life’s thin disguise,And man’s true greatness, all unknown,Stands clear before our eyes.
How wonderful he seems to me,Now that the lessons are all read,And, smiling through the stillness dim,The child I taught lies dead!I was his teacher yesterday—Now, could his silent lips unclose,What lessons might he teach to meOf the vast truth he knows!Last week he bent his anxious browsO’er maps with puzzling Poles and Zone;Now he, perchance, knows more than allThe scientists have known.“Death humbleth all”—ah, say not so!The man we scorn, the child we teachDeath in a moment places farPast all earth’s lore can reach.Death bringeth men unto their own!He tears aside Life’s thin disguise,And man’s true greatness, all unknown,Stands clear before our eyes.
How wonderful he seems to me,Now that the lessons are all read,And, smiling through the stillness dim,The child I taught lies dead!
I was his teacher yesterday—Now, could his silent lips unclose,What lessons might he teach to meOf the vast truth he knows!
Last week he bent his anxious browsO’er maps with puzzling Poles and Zone;Now he, perchance, knows more than allThe scientists have known.
“Death humbleth all”—ah, say not so!The man we scorn, the child we teachDeath in a moment places farPast all earth’s lore can reach.
Death bringeth men unto their own!He tears aside Life’s thin disguise,And man’s true greatness, all unknown,Stands clear before our eyes.
Rutted by wheels and scarred by hoofsAnd by rude footsteps trod,The old road winds through glimmering woodsUnto the house of God.How many feet, assembling hereFrom each diverse abode,Led by how many different aims,Have walked this shadowy road!How many sounds of woe and mirthHave thrilled these green woods dim—The funeral’s slow and solemn tramp,The wedding’s joyous hymn.Full oft, amid the gloom and glowThrough which the highway bends,I watch the meeting streams of life,Whose mingled current tendsToward where, beyond the rock-strewn hill,Against the dusky pinesThat rise above the churchyard graves,The white spire soars and shines.Here pass bowed men, with blanching locks,World-weary, faint, and old,Mourning the ways of reckless youthsFar-wandering from the fold.There totter women, frail and meek,Of dim but gentle eyes,Whom heaven’s love has made most kind,Earth’s hardships made most wise.Apart, two lovers walk together,With words and glances fond,So happy now they scarce can feelThe need of bliss beyond.Gaunt-limbed, his shoulders stooped with toil,His forehead seamed with care,Adown the road the farm hand stalksWith awed and awkward air.The sermon glimmers in his mind,Its truths half understood,And yet from prayer and hymn he gainsA shadowy dream of goodThat sanctifies the offeringHis bare life daily makes—His tender love for wife and child,And toil borne for their sakes.Thus through the bleakness and the bloom,O’er snows and freshening grass,Devout, profane, grief-worn or gay,The thronged church-goers pass,Till, one by one, they each and all,Their earthly journeyings o’er,Move silent down that well-known roadWhich they shall walk no more.
Rutted by wheels and scarred by hoofsAnd by rude footsteps trod,The old road winds through glimmering woodsUnto the house of God.How many feet, assembling hereFrom each diverse abode,Led by how many different aims,Have walked this shadowy road!How many sounds of woe and mirthHave thrilled these green woods dim—The funeral’s slow and solemn tramp,The wedding’s joyous hymn.Full oft, amid the gloom and glowThrough which the highway bends,I watch the meeting streams of life,Whose mingled current tendsToward where, beyond the rock-strewn hill,Against the dusky pinesThat rise above the churchyard graves,The white spire soars and shines.Here pass bowed men, with blanching locks,World-weary, faint, and old,Mourning the ways of reckless youthsFar-wandering from the fold.There totter women, frail and meek,Of dim but gentle eyes,Whom heaven’s love has made most kind,Earth’s hardships made most wise.Apart, two lovers walk together,With words and glances fond,So happy now they scarce can feelThe need of bliss beyond.Gaunt-limbed, his shoulders stooped with toil,His forehead seamed with care,Adown the road the farm hand stalksWith awed and awkward air.The sermon glimmers in his mind,Its truths half understood,And yet from prayer and hymn he gainsA shadowy dream of goodThat sanctifies the offeringHis bare life daily makes—His tender love for wife and child,And toil borne for their sakes.Thus through the bleakness and the bloom,O’er snows and freshening grass,Devout, profane, grief-worn or gay,The thronged church-goers pass,Till, one by one, they each and all,Their earthly journeyings o’er,Move silent down that well-known roadWhich they shall walk no more.
Rutted by wheels and scarred by hoofsAnd by rude footsteps trod,The old road winds through glimmering woodsUnto the house of God.
How many feet, assembling hereFrom each diverse abode,Led by how many different aims,Have walked this shadowy road!
How many sounds of woe and mirthHave thrilled these green woods dim—The funeral’s slow and solemn tramp,The wedding’s joyous hymn.
Full oft, amid the gloom and glowThrough which the highway bends,I watch the meeting streams of life,Whose mingled current tends
Toward where, beyond the rock-strewn hill,Against the dusky pinesThat rise above the churchyard graves,The white spire soars and shines.
Here pass bowed men, with blanching locks,World-weary, faint, and old,Mourning the ways of reckless youthsFar-wandering from the fold.
There totter women, frail and meek,Of dim but gentle eyes,Whom heaven’s love has made most kind,Earth’s hardships made most wise.
Apart, two lovers walk together,With words and glances fond,So happy now they scarce can feelThe need of bliss beyond.
Gaunt-limbed, his shoulders stooped with toil,His forehead seamed with care,Adown the road the farm hand stalksWith awed and awkward air.
The sermon glimmers in his mind,Its truths half understood,And yet from prayer and hymn he gainsA shadowy dream of good
That sanctifies the offeringHis bare life daily makes—His tender love for wife and child,And toil borne for their sakes.
Thus through the bleakness and the bloom,O’er snows and freshening grass,Devout, profane, grief-worn or gay,The thronged church-goers pass,
Till, one by one, they each and all,Their earthly journeyings o’er,Move silent down that well-known roadWhich they shall walk no more.
In an ancient window seat,Where the breeze of morning beat’Gainst her face, demure and sweet,Sat a girl of long ago,With her sunny head bent lowWhere her fingers flitted whiteThrough a maze of patchwork bright.Wondrous hues the rare quilt bears!All the clothes the household wearsBy their fragments may be tracedIn that bright mosaic placed;Pieces given by friend and neighbor,Blended by her curious laborWith the grandame’s gown of gray,And the silken bonnet gayThat the baby’s head hath crowned,In the quaint design are found.Did she aught suspect or dream,As she sewed each dainty seam,That a haunted thing she wrought?That each linsey scrap was fraughtWith some tender memory,Which, in distant years to be,Would lost hopes and loves recall,When her eyes should on it fall?Years have passed, and with their graceGentler made her gentle face;Brilliant still the fabrics shineOf the quilt’s antique design,As she folds it, soft and warm,Round a fair child’s sleeping form.Lustrous is her lifted gazeAs with half-voiced words she praysThat the bright head on that quiltMay not bow in shame or guilt,And the little feet belowDarksome paths may never know.Yet again the morning shinesOn the patch-work’s squares and lines;Dull and dim its colors show,But more dim the eyes that glow,Wandering with a dreamy glanceO’er the ancient quilt’s expanse;Worn its textures are and frayed,But the hands upon them laid,Creased with toils of many a year,Still more worn and old appear.But what hands, long-loved and dead,Do those faded fingers, spreadO’er those faded fabrics, meetIn reunion fond and sweet!What past scenes of tendernessAnd of joy that none may guess,Called back by the patchwork old,Do those darkening eyes behold!Lo, the deathless past comes near!From the silence whisper clearLong-hushed tones, and, changing not,Forms and faces unforgotIn their old-time grace and bloomShine from out the deepening gloom.
In an ancient window seat,Where the breeze of morning beat’Gainst her face, demure and sweet,Sat a girl of long ago,With her sunny head bent lowWhere her fingers flitted whiteThrough a maze of patchwork bright.Wondrous hues the rare quilt bears!All the clothes the household wearsBy their fragments may be tracedIn that bright mosaic placed;Pieces given by friend and neighbor,Blended by her curious laborWith the grandame’s gown of gray,And the silken bonnet gayThat the baby’s head hath crowned,In the quaint design are found.Did she aught suspect or dream,As she sewed each dainty seam,That a haunted thing she wrought?That each linsey scrap was fraughtWith some tender memory,Which, in distant years to be,Would lost hopes and loves recall,When her eyes should on it fall?Years have passed, and with their graceGentler made her gentle face;Brilliant still the fabrics shineOf the quilt’s antique design,As she folds it, soft and warm,Round a fair child’s sleeping form.Lustrous is her lifted gazeAs with half-voiced words she praysThat the bright head on that quiltMay not bow in shame or guilt,And the little feet belowDarksome paths may never know.Yet again the morning shinesOn the patch-work’s squares and lines;Dull and dim its colors show,But more dim the eyes that glow,Wandering with a dreamy glanceO’er the ancient quilt’s expanse;Worn its textures are and frayed,But the hands upon them laid,Creased with toils of many a year,Still more worn and old appear.But what hands, long-loved and dead,Do those faded fingers, spreadO’er those faded fabrics, meetIn reunion fond and sweet!What past scenes of tendernessAnd of joy that none may guess,Called back by the patchwork old,Do those darkening eyes behold!Lo, the deathless past comes near!From the silence whisper clearLong-hushed tones, and, changing not,Forms and faces unforgotIn their old-time grace and bloomShine from out the deepening gloom.
In an ancient window seat,Where the breeze of morning beat’Gainst her face, demure and sweet,Sat a girl of long ago,With her sunny head bent lowWhere her fingers flitted whiteThrough a maze of patchwork bright.
Wondrous hues the rare quilt bears!All the clothes the household wearsBy their fragments may be tracedIn that bright mosaic placed;Pieces given by friend and neighbor,Blended by her curious laborWith the grandame’s gown of gray,And the silken bonnet gayThat the baby’s head hath crowned,In the quaint design are found.
Did she aught suspect or dream,As she sewed each dainty seam,That a haunted thing she wrought?That each linsey scrap was fraughtWith some tender memory,Which, in distant years to be,Would lost hopes and loves recall,When her eyes should on it fall?
Years have passed, and with their graceGentler made her gentle face;Brilliant still the fabrics shineOf the quilt’s antique design,As she folds it, soft and warm,Round a fair child’s sleeping form.Lustrous is her lifted gazeAs with half-voiced words she praysThat the bright head on that quiltMay not bow in shame or guilt,And the little feet belowDarksome paths may never know.
Yet again the morning shinesOn the patch-work’s squares and lines;Dull and dim its colors show,But more dim the eyes that glow,Wandering with a dreamy glanceO’er the ancient quilt’s expanse;Worn its textures are and frayed,But the hands upon them laid,Creased with toils of many a year,Still more worn and old appear.
But what hands, long-loved and dead,Do those faded fingers, spreadO’er those faded fabrics, meetIn reunion fond and sweet!
What past scenes of tendernessAnd of joy that none may guess,Called back by the patchwork old,Do those darkening eyes behold!Lo, the deathless past comes near!From the silence whisper clearLong-hushed tones, and, changing not,Forms and faces unforgotIn their old-time grace and bloomShine from out the deepening gloom.
Dead! and he has died so young.Silent lips, with song unsung,Still hands, with the field untilled,Lofty purpose unfulfilled.Was that life so incomplete?Strong heart, that no more shall beat,Ardent brain and glorious eye,That seemed meant for tasks so high,But now moulder back to earth,Were you all then nothing worth?Could the death-dew and the darkQuench that soul’s unflickering spark?Are its aims, so high and just,All entombed here in the dust?O, we trust God shall unfoldMore than earthly eyes behold,And that they whose years were fleetFind life’s promises complete,Where, in lands no gaze hath met,Those we grieve for love us yet!
Dead! and he has died so young.Silent lips, with song unsung,Still hands, with the field untilled,Lofty purpose unfulfilled.Was that life so incomplete?Strong heart, that no more shall beat,Ardent brain and glorious eye,That seemed meant for tasks so high,But now moulder back to earth,Were you all then nothing worth?Could the death-dew and the darkQuench that soul’s unflickering spark?Are its aims, so high and just,All entombed here in the dust?O, we trust God shall unfoldMore than earthly eyes behold,And that they whose years were fleetFind life’s promises complete,Where, in lands no gaze hath met,Those we grieve for love us yet!
Dead! and he has died so young.Silent lips, with song unsung,Still hands, with the field untilled,Lofty purpose unfulfilled.
Was that life so incomplete?Strong heart, that no more shall beat,Ardent brain and glorious eye,That seemed meant for tasks so high,But now moulder back to earth,Were you all then nothing worth?
Could the death-dew and the darkQuench that soul’s unflickering spark?Are its aims, so high and just,All entombed here in the dust?
O, we trust God shall unfoldMore than earthly eyes behold,And that they whose years were fleetFind life’s promises complete,Where, in lands no gaze hath met,Those we grieve for love us yet!
“Dying so young, how much he missed!” they said,While his unbreathing sleep they wept around;“If he had lived, Fame surely would have crownedWith wreath of fadeless green his kingly head;The clear glance of his burning eyes had readWisdom’s dim secrets, hoary and profound;While his life’s path would have been holy ground,Made thus by all men’s love upon it shed.”Doubtless could he have spoken for whom that rainOf teardrops fell, “How strange your sad words are!”He would have said; “In fuller measure farAll that life gave to me I still retain;Love have I now which no dark longings mar,Fame void of strife, and wisdom free from pain.”
“Dying so young, how much he missed!” they said,While his unbreathing sleep they wept around;“If he had lived, Fame surely would have crownedWith wreath of fadeless green his kingly head;The clear glance of his burning eyes had readWisdom’s dim secrets, hoary and profound;While his life’s path would have been holy ground,Made thus by all men’s love upon it shed.”Doubtless could he have spoken for whom that rainOf teardrops fell, “How strange your sad words are!”He would have said; “In fuller measure farAll that life gave to me I still retain;Love have I now which no dark longings mar,Fame void of strife, and wisdom free from pain.”
“Dying so young, how much he missed!” they said,While his unbreathing sleep they wept around;“If he had lived, Fame surely would have crownedWith wreath of fadeless green his kingly head;The clear glance of his burning eyes had readWisdom’s dim secrets, hoary and profound;While his life’s path would have been holy ground,Made thus by all men’s love upon it shed.”
Doubtless could he have spoken for whom that rainOf teardrops fell, “How strange your sad words are!”He would have said; “In fuller measure farAll that life gave to me I still retain;Love have I now which no dark longings mar,Fame void of strife, and wisdom free from pain.”
O sweetest month, that pourest from full handsThe golden bounty of rich harvest lands!O saddest month, that bearest with thy breathThe crimson leaves to drifts of glowing death!In fields and lives, the fall of withered leavesDarkens the glorious season of ripe sheaves,For Life’s fruition comes with loss and pain,And Death alone can bring the richest gain.
O sweetest month, that pourest from full handsThe golden bounty of rich harvest lands!O saddest month, that bearest with thy breathThe crimson leaves to drifts of glowing death!In fields and lives, the fall of withered leavesDarkens the glorious season of ripe sheaves,For Life’s fruition comes with loss and pain,And Death alone can bring the richest gain.
O sweetest month, that pourest from full handsThe golden bounty of rich harvest lands!O saddest month, that bearest with thy breathThe crimson leaves to drifts of glowing death!
In fields and lives, the fall of withered leavesDarkens the glorious season of ripe sheaves,For Life’s fruition comes with loss and pain,And Death alone can bring the richest gain.
Thanking God for life and light,Strength and joyous breath,Should we not, with reverent lips,Thank Him, too, for death?When would man’s injustice cease,Did not stern Death bringThose who cheated and oppressedTo their reckoning?Would not life’s long sordidnessOn our spirits pall,If our years should last forever,And the earth were all?On us, withered with life’s heat,Falls death’s cooling dew,And our parched souls’ dusty leavesTheir lost green renew.Ah, though deep the grave-dust hideLove and courage high,Life a paltrier thing would beIf we could not die!
Thanking God for life and light,Strength and joyous breath,Should we not, with reverent lips,Thank Him, too, for death?When would man’s injustice cease,Did not stern Death bringThose who cheated and oppressedTo their reckoning?Would not life’s long sordidnessOn our spirits pall,If our years should last forever,And the earth were all?On us, withered with life’s heat,Falls death’s cooling dew,And our parched souls’ dusty leavesTheir lost green renew.Ah, though deep the grave-dust hideLove and courage high,Life a paltrier thing would beIf we could not die!
Thanking God for life and light,Strength and joyous breath,Should we not, with reverent lips,Thank Him, too, for death?
When would man’s injustice cease,Did not stern Death bringThose who cheated and oppressedTo their reckoning?
Would not life’s long sordidnessOn our spirits pall,If our years should last forever,And the earth were all?
On us, withered with life’s heat,Falls death’s cooling dew,And our parched souls’ dusty leavesTheir lost green renew.
Ah, though deep the grave-dust hideLove and courage high,Life a paltrier thing would beIf we could not die!
If our dead could come back to us,Who so desire it,And be as they were before,Would we require it?Would we bid them share againOur weakness, foregoingAll their higher blessednessOf being and knowing?For them the triumph is won,The fight completed;Do we wish that the doubtful strifeShould be repeated?Would we call them from the calmOf all assuranceTo the perils that might provePast their endurance?God is kind, since He will not heedOur bitter yearning,And the gates of heaven are shut’Gainst all returning.
If our dead could come back to us,Who so desire it,And be as they were before,Would we require it?Would we bid them share againOur weakness, foregoingAll their higher blessednessOf being and knowing?For them the triumph is won,The fight completed;Do we wish that the doubtful strifeShould be repeated?Would we call them from the calmOf all assuranceTo the perils that might provePast their endurance?God is kind, since He will not heedOur bitter yearning,And the gates of heaven are shut’Gainst all returning.
If our dead could come back to us,Who so desire it,And be as they were before,Would we require it?
Would we bid them share againOur weakness, foregoingAll their higher blessednessOf being and knowing?
For them the triumph is won,The fight completed;Do we wish that the doubtful strifeShould be repeated?
Would we call them from the calmOf all assuranceTo the perils that might provePast their endurance?
God is kind, since He will not heedOur bitter yearning,And the gates of heaven are shut’Gainst all returning.
When a hundred years have passed,What shall then be left at lastOf us and the deeds we wrought?Shall there be remaining aughtSave green graves in churchyards old,Names o’ergrown with moss and mold,From the worn stones half effaced,And from human hearts erased?When a hundred years have fled,Will it matter how we spedIn the conflicts of to-day,Which side took we in the fray,If we dared or if we quailed,If we nobly won or failed?It will matter! If, too weakFor the right to strike or speak,We in virtue’s cause are dumb,Some soul in far years to comeShall have darker strife with vice,Weakened by our cowardice.Every struggle that we make,Every valiant stand we takeIn a righteous cause forlorn,Shall give strength to hearts unborn.When a hundred years have gone,Darkness and oblivionShall our ended lives obscure,But their influence shall endure.Other eyes shall be upraisedTo the hills on which we gazed,And the paths o’er which we plodShall by other feet be trod,While our names shall be forgot;Yet, although they know it not,Those who live then, none the less,We shall sadden or shall bless.They shall bear our boon or curse,They shall better be or worse,As we who shall then lie still,Have lived nobly or lived ill.
When a hundred years have passed,What shall then be left at lastOf us and the deeds we wrought?Shall there be remaining aughtSave green graves in churchyards old,Names o’ergrown with moss and mold,From the worn stones half effaced,And from human hearts erased?When a hundred years have fled,Will it matter how we spedIn the conflicts of to-day,Which side took we in the fray,If we dared or if we quailed,If we nobly won or failed?It will matter! If, too weakFor the right to strike or speak,We in virtue’s cause are dumb,Some soul in far years to comeShall have darker strife with vice,Weakened by our cowardice.Every struggle that we make,Every valiant stand we takeIn a righteous cause forlorn,Shall give strength to hearts unborn.When a hundred years have gone,Darkness and oblivionShall our ended lives obscure,But their influence shall endure.Other eyes shall be upraisedTo the hills on which we gazed,And the paths o’er which we plodShall by other feet be trod,While our names shall be forgot;Yet, although they know it not,Those who live then, none the less,We shall sadden or shall bless.They shall bear our boon or curse,They shall better be or worse,As we who shall then lie still,Have lived nobly or lived ill.
When a hundred years have passed,What shall then be left at lastOf us and the deeds we wrought?Shall there be remaining aughtSave green graves in churchyards old,Names o’ergrown with moss and mold,From the worn stones half effaced,And from human hearts erased?
When a hundred years have fled,Will it matter how we spedIn the conflicts of to-day,Which side took we in the fray,If we dared or if we quailed,If we nobly won or failed?It will matter! If, too weakFor the right to strike or speak,We in virtue’s cause are dumb,Some soul in far years to comeShall have darker strife with vice,Weakened by our cowardice.Every struggle that we make,Every valiant stand we takeIn a righteous cause forlorn,Shall give strength to hearts unborn.
When a hundred years have gone,Darkness and oblivionShall our ended lives obscure,But their influence shall endure.Other eyes shall be upraisedTo the hills on which we gazed,And the paths o’er which we plodShall by other feet be trod,While our names shall be forgot;Yet, although they know it not,Those who live then, none the less,We shall sadden or shall bless.They shall bear our boon or curse,They shall better be or worse,As we who shall then lie still,Have lived nobly or lived ill.
Beneath the frost-stripped forest boughs, the drifted leaves are spread,Vanished all summer’s green delight, all autumn’s glory fled.Yet, gathering strength from that dead host, the tree in some far springShall toward the skies a denser growth, a darker foliage fling.Ah, if some power from us, long dead, should strengthen life to be,We need not grieve to lie forgot, like sere leaves ’neath the tree!
Beneath the frost-stripped forest boughs, the drifted leaves are spread,Vanished all summer’s green delight, all autumn’s glory fled.Yet, gathering strength from that dead host, the tree in some far springShall toward the skies a denser growth, a darker foliage fling.Ah, if some power from us, long dead, should strengthen life to be,We need not grieve to lie forgot, like sere leaves ’neath the tree!
Beneath the frost-stripped forest boughs, the drifted leaves are spread,Vanished all summer’s green delight, all autumn’s glory fled.
Yet, gathering strength from that dead host, the tree in some far springShall toward the skies a denser growth, a darker foliage fling.
Ah, if some power from us, long dead, should strengthen life to be,We need not grieve to lie forgot, like sere leaves ’neath the tree!
The falling snow a stainless veil doth castUpon the relics of the dying year—Dead leaves and withered flowers and stubble sere—As if it would erase the faded past;So on our lives does death descend at last,Hiding youth’s hopes and manhood’s purpose clear,And memories faint, to dreaming age most dear,Beneath its silence, blank and white and vast.The sun shines out, and lo! the meadows loneFlash into sudden splendor, strangely bright,More fair than summer landscape ever shone;Thus, gleaming through the storm clouds, faith’s clear lightTransforms death’s endless waste of silence whiteTo beauty passing all that life has known.
The falling snow a stainless veil doth castUpon the relics of the dying year—Dead leaves and withered flowers and stubble sere—As if it would erase the faded past;So on our lives does death descend at last,Hiding youth’s hopes and manhood’s purpose clear,And memories faint, to dreaming age most dear,Beneath its silence, blank and white and vast.The sun shines out, and lo! the meadows loneFlash into sudden splendor, strangely bright,More fair than summer landscape ever shone;Thus, gleaming through the storm clouds, faith’s clear lightTransforms death’s endless waste of silence whiteTo beauty passing all that life has known.
The falling snow a stainless veil doth castUpon the relics of the dying year—Dead leaves and withered flowers and stubble sere—As if it would erase the faded past;So on our lives does death descend at last,Hiding youth’s hopes and manhood’s purpose clear,And memories faint, to dreaming age most dear,Beneath its silence, blank and white and vast.
The sun shines out, and lo! the meadows loneFlash into sudden splendor, strangely bright,More fair than summer landscape ever shone;Thus, gleaming through the storm clouds, faith’s clear lightTransforms death’s endless waste of silence whiteTo beauty passing all that life has known.
I came, I go, at His behest,So, fearing not and not distressed,I pass unto that life unguessed.Little the babe, at its first cry,Knows of the scenes that near it lie;Less still of that dim life know I.But Love receives the babe to earth,Soft hands give welcome at its birth;And so I think, when I go forth,There too shall wait, to cheer and bless,Love, warm as mother’s first caress,Strong as a father’s tenderness.
I came, I go, at His behest,So, fearing not and not distressed,I pass unto that life unguessed.Little the babe, at its first cry,Knows of the scenes that near it lie;Less still of that dim life know I.But Love receives the babe to earth,Soft hands give welcome at its birth;And so I think, when I go forth,There too shall wait, to cheer and bless,Love, warm as mother’s first caress,Strong as a father’s tenderness.
I came, I go, at His behest,So, fearing not and not distressed,I pass unto that life unguessed.
Little the babe, at its first cry,Knows of the scenes that near it lie;Less still of that dim life know I.
But Love receives the babe to earth,Soft hands give welcome at its birth;And so I think, when I go forth,
There too shall wait, to cheer and bless,Love, warm as mother’s first caress,Strong as a father’s tenderness.
When, in old days, our fathers cameTo bury low their dead,Unto the far-off eastern skyThey turned the narrow bed.They laid the sleeper on his couchWith firm and simple faithThat cloudless morn would surely comeTo end the night of death;And thus they sought to place him where,When life’s clear sun should rise,Its earliest rays might wakening fallAcross his close-sealed eyes.Like a faint fragrance lingering onThroughout unnumbered years,Still in our country burial-groundsThe custom sweet appears;Still, when the light of life from eyesBeloved is withdrawn,The sleepers’ dreamless beds are madeFacing the looked-for dawn.There, as the seasons pass, they seemSerenely to awaitThe certain radiance of that MornThat cometh soon or late.
When, in old days, our fathers cameTo bury low their dead,Unto the far-off eastern skyThey turned the narrow bed.They laid the sleeper on his couchWith firm and simple faithThat cloudless morn would surely comeTo end the night of death;And thus they sought to place him where,When life’s clear sun should rise,Its earliest rays might wakening fallAcross his close-sealed eyes.Like a faint fragrance lingering onThroughout unnumbered years,Still in our country burial-groundsThe custom sweet appears;Still, when the light of life from eyesBeloved is withdrawn,The sleepers’ dreamless beds are madeFacing the looked-for dawn.There, as the seasons pass, they seemSerenely to awaitThe certain radiance of that MornThat cometh soon or late.
When, in old days, our fathers cameTo bury low their dead,Unto the far-off eastern skyThey turned the narrow bed.
They laid the sleeper on his couchWith firm and simple faithThat cloudless morn would surely comeTo end the night of death;
And thus they sought to place him where,When life’s clear sun should rise,Its earliest rays might wakening fallAcross his close-sealed eyes.
Like a faint fragrance lingering onThroughout unnumbered years,Still in our country burial-groundsThe custom sweet appears;
Still, when the light of life from eyesBeloved is withdrawn,The sleepers’ dreamless beds are madeFacing the looked-for dawn.
There, as the seasons pass, they seemSerenely to awaitThe certain radiance of that MornThat cometh soon or late.
Dear earth, I am going away to-nightFrom your long-loved hills and your meadows bright;I know I should miss you when I am deadIf a better world came not in your stead.For the sweet, long days in your woodlands spent,And your starry dusks, I shall not lament;For greater than all the wonders you show,O earth, is the secret I soon shall know.Good night! And now as I fall asleepI give you the garment I wore to keep;You will hold it safely till morning dawnAnd I rise from my slumber to put it on.
Dear earth, I am going away to-nightFrom your long-loved hills and your meadows bright;I know I should miss you when I am deadIf a better world came not in your stead.For the sweet, long days in your woodlands spent,And your starry dusks, I shall not lament;For greater than all the wonders you show,O earth, is the secret I soon shall know.Good night! And now as I fall asleepI give you the garment I wore to keep;You will hold it safely till morning dawnAnd I rise from my slumber to put it on.
Dear earth, I am going away to-nightFrom your long-loved hills and your meadows bright;I know I should miss you when I am deadIf a better world came not in your stead.
For the sweet, long days in your woodlands spent,And your starry dusks, I shall not lament;For greater than all the wonders you show,O earth, is the secret I soon shall know.
Good night! And now as I fall asleepI give you the garment I wore to keep;You will hold it safely till morning dawnAnd I rise from my slumber to put it on.