It was on a midsummer night,Now long ago,In the far-off land of Norway,I sat in an open window,And dreamed.The valley and hills and distant mountainsWere all like a dreamIn the soft light and wonderful calmOf the night.The odor of cherry-blossoms and birch,And the mingled perfume from meadows and hills and valeWrought with a fairy-potion,Dreams and thrills of the soul.The lazy smoke of the Saint John’s fireLike pillars rose from the wooded heightsTo the sky cerulian,Where the evening star shone bright,Like an eye that twinkles with tears of joy;It shimmered above a cataract,Whose music rose and fellWhere the river leaped over the rocks to the fjord.The night had voices:Laughter and singing of youth round the bonfires;Purling of streams, and twitter of sleepless birds;Yet all was peace, and joy, and life,And mystery such as the Avon BardDid see and hear on a Midsummer night.I was but a boy, and the names of the greatWere new to me, and yet not strange,—I knew not why.That day I had read about Hugo,That he, the greatest of singersIn our own day, was dead;I felt a heart-gripping sorrow,And wept as over a friend.It seemed that his spirit was there,In the dreams of that Saint John’s night,That all the fairies and flowers and streamsWere greeting him with a love that had sadness,And yet which rose on the wings of gladness,Up to the stars.My soul did feel it, I know not how,That he was there, a part of it all,The Highpriest of Nature, Romance and Life.
It was on a midsummer night,Now long ago,In the far-off land of Norway,I sat in an open window,And dreamed.The valley and hills and distant mountainsWere all like a dreamIn the soft light and wonderful calmOf the night.The odor of cherry-blossoms and birch,And the mingled perfume from meadows and hills and valeWrought with a fairy-potion,Dreams and thrills of the soul.The lazy smoke of the Saint John’s fireLike pillars rose from the wooded heightsTo the sky cerulian,Where the evening star shone bright,Like an eye that twinkles with tears of joy;It shimmered above a cataract,Whose music rose and fellWhere the river leaped over the rocks to the fjord.The night had voices:Laughter and singing of youth round the bonfires;Purling of streams, and twitter of sleepless birds;Yet all was peace, and joy, and life,And mystery such as the Avon BardDid see and hear on a Midsummer night.I was but a boy, and the names of the greatWere new to me, and yet not strange,—I knew not why.That day I had read about Hugo,That he, the greatest of singersIn our own day, was dead;I felt a heart-gripping sorrow,And wept as over a friend.It seemed that his spirit was there,In the dreams of that Saint John’s night,That all the fairies and flowers and streamsWere greeting him with a love that had sadness,And yet which rose on the wings of gladness,Up to the stars.My soul did feel it, I know not how,That he was there, a part of it all,The Highpriest of Nature, Romance and Life.
It was on a midsummer night,Now long ago,In the far-off land of Norway,I sat in an open window,And dreamed.
The valley and hills and distant mountainsWere all like a dreamIn the soft light and wonderful calmOf the night.
The odor of cherry-blossoms and birch,And the mingled perfume from meadows and hills and valeWrought with a fairy-potion,Dreams and thrills of the soul.
The lazy smoke of the Saint John’s fireLike pillars rose from the wooded heightsTo the sky cerulian,Where the evening star shone bright,Like an eye that twinkles with tears of joy;It shimmered above a cataract,Whose music rose and fellWhere the river leaped over the rocks to the fjord.
The night had voices:Laughter and singing of youth round the bonfires;Purling of streams, and twitter of sleepless birds;Yet all was peace, and joy, and life,And mystery such as the Avon BardDid see and hear on a Midsummer night.
I was but a boy, and the names of the greatWere new to me, and yet not strange,—I knew not why.That day I had read about Hugo,That he, the greatest of singersIn our own day, was dead;I felt a heart-gripping sorrow,And wept as over a friend.
It seemed that his spirit was there,In the dreams of that Saint John’s night,That all the fairies and flowers and streamsWere greeting him with a love that had sadness,And yet which rose on the wings of gladness,Up to the stars.
My soul did feel it, I know not how,That he was there, a part of it all,The Highpriest of Nature, Romance and Life.
In the stillness of the evening,When the dew is on the grass,And the forest stands a-dreaming,’Round the moonlit lake of glass,Do I hear a sighing whisper,As when happy lovers part,It is thine I hear, my lady,Rising from all nature’s heart.When the autumn winds are blowing,And the yellow leaves fall down,Whirled upon the river, flowingTo the mighty, distant sound,—Then I hear thy soul a-weeping,For the love that is no more,For the life now in God’s keeping,On a far-off, unknown shore.When the fields and hills are coveredWith a blanket of pure snow,And the streams, where oft we hovered,Unseen ’neath the thick ice flow,Then I know thy life lies hiddenUnder sorrow’s wintry plaid,But the hope, which seems forbidden,In its course cannot be staid.When in spring new life is risenFrom the grave with songs of joy,Then thy soul shall leave its prison,And its broken harp employ,Then again that sighing whisper,Charged with love and happiness,I shall hear amid the woodlandsWhich the dreamy lake caress.
In the stillness of the evening,When the dew is on the grass,And the forest stands a-dreaming,’Round the moonlit lake of glass,Do I hear a sighing whisper,As when happy lovers part,It is thine I hear, my lady,Rising from all nature’s heart.When the autumn winds are blowing,And the yellow leaves fall down,Whirled upon the river, flowingTo the mighty, distant sound,—Then I hear thy soul a-weeping,For the love that is no more,For the life now in God’s keeping,On a far-off, unknown shore.When the fields and hills are coveredWith a blanket of pure snow,And the streams, where oft we hovered,Unseen ’neath the thick ice flow,Then I know thy life lies hiddenUnder sorrow’s wintry plaid,But the hope, which seems forbidden,In its course cannot be staid.When in spring new life is risenFrom the grave with songs of joy,Then thy soul shall leave its prison,And its broken harp employ,Then again that sighing whisper,Charged with love and happiness,I shall hear amid the woodlandsWhich the dreamy lake caress.
In the stillness of the evening,When the dew is on the grass,And the forest stands a-dreaming,’Round the moonlit lake of glass,Do I hear a sighing whisper,As when happy lovers part,It is thine I hear, my lady,Rising from all nature’s heart.
When the autumn winds are blowing,And the yellow leaves fall down,Whirled upon the river, flowingTo the mighty, distant sound,—Then I hear thy soul a-weeping,For the love that is no more,For the life now in God’s keeping,On a far-off, unknown shore.
When the fields and hills are coveredWith a blanket of pure snow,And the streams, where oft we hovered,Unseen ’neath the thick ice flow,Then I know thy life lies hiddenUnder sorrow’s wintry plaid,But the hope, which seems forbidden,In its course cannot be staid.
When in spring new life is risenFrom the grave with songs of joy,Then thy soul shall leave its prison,And its broken harp employ,Then again that sighing whisper,Charged with love and happiness,I shall hear amid the woodlandsWhich the dreamy lake caress.
This sturdy world is hard to knock,Though hit it as you may,It moves, unmindful of the shock,—In its accustomed way.It laughs a little cynic laughAnd says: “Fall into line,The use of Mose’ rod and staffIs but for the divine.“Come, son, or thou must surely die,One fool the more or lessWill not provoke a mournful cry,Nor cause an hour’s distress.“So know thy best, be like the rest,And stop thy foolish knocking,Who cares for ‘vision’ and for ‘quest,’Save one, the quest of shopping.”
This sturdy world is hard to knock,Though hit it as you may,It moves, unmindful of the shock,—In its accustomed way.It laughs a little cynic laughAnd says: “Fall into line,The use of Mose’ rod and staffIs but for the divine.“Come, son, or thou must surely die,One fool the more or lessWill not provoke a mournful cry,Nor cause an hour’s distress.“So know thy best, be like the rest,And stop thy foolish knocking,Who cares for ‘vision’ and for ‘quest,’Save one, the quest of shopping.”
This sturdy world is hard to knock,Though hit it as you may,It moves, unmindful of the shock,—In its accustomed way.
It laughs a little cynic laughAnd says: “Fall into line,The use of Mose’ rod and staffIs but for the divine.
“Come, son, or thou must surely die,One fool the more or lessWill not provoke a mournful cry,Nor cause an hour’s distress.
“So know thy best, be like the rest,And stop thy foolish knocking,Who cares for ‘vision’ and for ‘quest,’Save one, the quest of shopping.”
To-day I had a vision of the thingWhich we call life—the sum of human life—In person of an upright monster-man,Decked in a foot-long robe of many hues,Whose front was squares of yellow, red and green,And blue and purple and the violet,Whose back was sombre brown, but mostly black;His large and bony feet strode heavily,A-trampling, upon beings in his path,On men and women and on little babes,And crushed them in the dust without a pity,Once in a while he lifted to his breastSome one with fondling pleasure, and did bearThe favorite aloft, that all might seeHis glory’s contrast to their misery;But then at length, he tired of even such,And cast them down into the common dust.I looked upon his visage, strangest this,A blending of the human and the beast:—But then the vision vanished, and I heardA cry and circling of the Pheonix bird.
To-day I had a vision of the thingWhich we call life—the sum of human life—In person of an upright monster-man,Decked in a foot-long robe of many hues,Whose front was squares of yellow, red and green,And blue and purple and the violet,Whose back was sombre brown, but mostly black;His large and bony feet strode heavily,A-trampling, upon beings in his path,On men and women and on little babes,And crushed them in the dust without a pity,Once in a while he lifted to his breastSome one with fondling pleasure, and did bearThe favorite aloft, that all might seeHis glory’s contrast to their misery;But then at length, he tired of even such,And cast them down into the common dust.I looked upon his visage, strangest this,A blending of the human and the beast:—But then the vision vanished, and I heardA cry and circling of the Pheonix bird.
To-day I had a vision of the thingWhich we call life—the sum of human life—In person of an upright monster-man,Decked in a foot-long robe of many hues,Whose front was squares of yellow, red and green,And blue and purple and the violet,Whose back was sombre brown, but mostly black;His large and bony feet strode heavily,A-trampling, upon beings in his path,On men and women and on little babes,And crushed them in the dust without a pity,Once in a while he lifted to his breastSome one with fondling pleasure, and did bear
The favorite aloft, that all might seeHis glory’s contrast to their misery;But then at length, he tired of even such,And cast them down into the common dust.I looked upon his visage, strangest this,A blending of the human and the beast:—But then the vision vanished, and I heardA cry and circling of the Pheonix bird.
I read in the mystic KabbalaThat there is a creature in heavenTo which the most blessed JehovahTwo wonderful tokens hath given:A word in its forehead at morning,A word in its forehead at night,Like jewels those words are adorningThe creature with glory and light.The first one is “Truth” which is tellingThe angels of heaven, it is day,Its lustre most joyous, compelling,Is guiding and keeping their way.The other is “Faith,” which betokenThat night is advancing apace,With rays that are dimmer and broken,Like sunset through silvery haze.And I pondered this much, till I venturedThe signs on this world to apply,Though Rabbins of old might have censured,And judged that for this I must die.But the sign that is set on this creature—The world—I perceive is the last,The first may belong to the future,When night’s gloomy vigils are past.
I read in the mystic KabbalaThat there is a creature in heavenTo which the most blessed JehovahTwo wonderful tokens hath given:A word in its forehead at morning,A word in its forehead at night,Like jewels those words are adorningThe creature with glory and light.The first one is “Truth” which is tellingThe angels of heaven, it is day,Its lustre most joyous, compelling,Is guiding and keeping their way.The other is “Faith,” which betokenThat night is advancing apace,With rays that are dimmer and broken,Like sunset through silvery haze.And I pondered this much, till I venturedThe signs on this world to apply,Though Rabbins of old might have censured,And judged that for this I must die.But the sign that is set on this creature—The world—I perceive is the last,The first may belong to the future,When night’s gloomy vigils are past.
I read in the mystic KabbalaThat there is a creature in heavenTo which the most blessed JehovahTwo wonderful tokens hath given:
A word in its forehead at morning,A word in its forehead at night,Like jewels those words are adorningThe creature with glory and light.
The first one is “Truth” which is tellingThe angels of heaven, it is day,Its lustre most joyous, compelling,Is guiding and keeping their way.
The other is “Faith,” which betokenThat night is advancing apace,With rays that are dimmer and broken,Like sunset through silvery haze.
And I pondered this much, till I venturedThe signs on this world to apply,Though Rabbins of old might have censured,And judged that for this I must die.
But the sign that is set on this creature—The world—I perceive is the last,The first may belong to the future,When night’s gloomy vigils are past.
Hence vain, illusive Hope,Thou errant guide, thou jesting, mocking fool!For thee should be the hangman’s rope,Or drowning in the deepest pool,Or everlasting prison in the darkest pitOf Dante’s hell,Where like a Siren thou should’st sitAnd mock thyself by saying: all is well.I henceforth choose black Melancholy’s aid,—The only prophetess of real truth,Who nothing promises, who never madeA fair illusion for aspiring youth;—“All is nothing,” she doth whisper still,A whisper from a Sibyl’s cave it seems,A soothing balm for every human ill,A true solution of man’s checkered dreams.Thou sable sovereign of man’s destiny,Thou cypress-crowned queen of night and grave,Thou ruler of man’s woe and misery,—The world’s great cry which like a waveBreaks on the rocks of cruel Fate,—Thou autocrat of all that overwhelmsMan’s soul with sorrow, disappointment, hate,To thee belongs, at last, all worlds and realms.
Hence vain, illusive Hope,Thou errant guide, thou jesting, mocking fool!For thee should be the hangman’s rope,Or drowning in the deepest pool,Or everlasting prison in the darkest pitOf Dante’s hell,Where like a Siren thou should’st sitAnd mock thyself by saying: all is well.I henceforth choose black Melancholy’s aid,—The only prophetess of real truth,Who nothing promises, who never madeA fair illusion for aspiring youth;—“All is nothing,” she doth whisper still,A whisper from a Sibyl’s cave it seems,A soothing balm for every human ill,A true solution of man’s checkered dreams.Thou sable sovereign of man’s destiny,Thou cypress-crowned queen of night and grave,Thou ruler of man’s woe and misery,—The world’s great cry which like a waveBreaks on the rocks of cruel Fate,—Thou autocrat of all that overwhelmsMan’s soul with sorrow, disappointment, hate,To thee belongs, at last, all worlds and realms.
Hence vain, illusive Hope,Thou errant guide, thou jesting, mocking fool!For thee should be the hangman’s rope,Or drowning in the deepest pool,Or everlasting prison in the darkest pitOf Dante’s hell,Where like a Siren thou should’st sitAnd mock thyself by saying: all is well.
I henceforth choose black Melancholy’s aid,—The only prophetess of real truth,Who nothing promises, who never madeA fair illusion for aspiring youth;—“All is nothing,” she doth whisper still,A whisper from a Sibyl’s cave it seems,A soothing balm for every human ill,A true solution of man’s checkered dreams.
Thou sable sovereign of man’s destiny,Thou cypress-crowned queen of night and grave,Thou ruler of man’s woe and misery,—The world’s great cry which like a waveBreaks on the rocks of cruel Fate,—Thou autocrat of all that overwhelmsMan’s soul with sorrow, disappointment, hate,To thee belongs, at last, all worlds and realms.
When mid the ruins of my lifeI sit dejected and forlorn,And think, how useless was the strifeThat was by strong ambitions borne,And count the years and reck the cost,Which all seem idly spent and vain,Fair Hope comes, saying: “Nought is lost,Life’s failures bring the better gain!”When sorrow, troubles come in flocks,Like angry clouds, driven by the blast,Like waves against the riven rocks,On which my helpless soul is cast,And night and darkness come apace,With not a friend around to cheer,Again she shows her angel face,And whispers gently: “Do not fear.”When by the graves of those I loveDark doubts are hovering around,She lifts my tearful look aboveThe withered lily on the mound,And in the blue, so far away,I see a gleam, it seems a smile,—Again I hear her softly say:“Despair not, wait a little while.”O, blessed Hope, without whose aid,No victory is ever won,In life’s sweet morn and sunny glade,Or evening shadows drear and dun,Thou art our guardian angel, whoWalks with us, when all others fail,And scatters roses, fresh with dew,—O, heaven-born all hail! all hail!
When mid the ruins of my lifeI sit dejected and forlorn,And think, how useless was the strifeThat was by strong ambitions borne,And count the years and reck the cost,Which all seem idly spent and vain,Fair Hope comes, saying: “Nought is lost,Life’s failures bring the better gain!”When sorrow, troubles come in flocks,Like angry clouds, driven by the blast,Like waves against the riven rocks,On which my helpless soul is cast,And night and darkness come apace,With not a friend around to cheer,Again she shows her angel face,And whispers gently: “Do not fear.”When by the graves of those I loveDark doubts are hovering around,She lifts my tearful look aboveThe withered lily on the mound,And in the blue, so far away,I see a gleam, it seems a smile,—Again I hear her softly say:“Despair not, wait a little while.”O, blessed Hope, without whose aid,No victory is ever won,In life’s sweet morn and sunny glade,Or evening shadows drear and dun,Thou art our guardian angel, whoWalks with us, when all others fail,And scatters roses, fresh with dew,—O, heaven-born all hail! all hail!
When mid the ruins of my lifeI sit dejected and forlorn,And think, how useless was the strifeThat was by strong ambitions borne,And count the years and reck the cost,Which all seem idly spent and vain,Fair Hope comes, saying: “Nought is lost,Life’s failures bring the better gain!”
When sorrow, troubles come in flocks,Like angry clouds, driven by the blast,Like waves against the riven rocks,On which my helpless soul is cast,And night and darkness come apace,With not a friend around to cheer,Again she shows her angel face,And whispers gently: “Do not fear.”
When by the graves of those I loveDark doubts are hovering around,She lifts my tearful look aboveThe withered lily on the mound,And in the blue, so far away,I see a gleam, it seems a smile,—Again I hear her softly say:“Despair not, wait a little while.”
O, blessed Hope, without whose aid,No victory is ever won,In life’s sweet morn and sunny glade,Or evening shadows drear and dun,Thou art our guardian angel, whoWalks with us, when all others fail,And scatters roses, fresh with dew,—O, heaven-born all hail! all hail!
Be still my soul, be still;Fret not thyself with cares of life,With worldly vanity and strife,Which bring but ill.Withdraw thyself and be alone,Alone in holy solitude,Then shalt thou know the highest good,And for thy sins atone.Then shalt thou know the harmonyOf sweet celestial strains,Whose soothing notes allay the painsBrought on by human misery.This world is void of peace,—’Tis nowhere found, except within,When from the earthly gain to win,Thou deignest cease.
Be still my soul, be still;Fret not thyself with cares of life,With worldly vanity and strife,Which bring but ill.Withdraw thyself and be alone,Alone in holy solitude,Then shalt thou know the highest good,And for thy sins atone.Then shalt thou know the harmonyOf sweet celestial strains,Whose soothing notes allay the painsBrought on by human misery.This world is void of peace,—’Tis nowhere found, except within,When from the earthly gain to win,Thou deignest cease.
Be still my soul, be still;Fret not thyself with cares of life,With worldly vanity and strife,Which bring but ill.
Withdraw thyself and be alone,Alone in holy solitude,Then shalt thou know the highest good,And for thy sins atone.
Then shalt thou know the harmonyOf sweet celestial strains,Whose soothing notes allay the painsBrought on by human misery.
This world is void of peace,—’Tis nowhere found, except within,When from the earthly gain to win,Thou deignest cease.
The livelong night I lie awake,While all the world is slumbering,And weary I am numberingThe hours which on the stillness break;The hours, which give to others balm,The blessed balm of soothing sleep,My mind in cruel torture keep,And yet demand a perfect calm.The hours whose loss I oft bewailAt close of busy workingday,Now gladly I hear pass away,And the approaching morning hail.And yet their woe hath recompense,Which sleeping mortals do not know,For gentle voices come and go,With solace to the weary sense.From distant meadows comes the soundOf cowbells, stirred at intervals,And to my heart with joy recallsThe age when in their clang I foundSuggestions of a fairy land,When Elfins rang their silver bellsIn flow’ry meads and shady dells,Or on the quiet moonlit strand.I hear the cricket’s autumn song,The ceaseless music of the night,It tells about the summer’s flight,And of its life, so full and strong,Of memories with love aglow,In youth and manhood’s fuller life,Of vanished days with glory rife,Whose joys I ne’er again shall know.And far away the river singsIts lullaby out to the sea,A sense of rest comes over me,Perhaps sweet sleep at last it brings.
The livelong night I lie awake,While all the world is slumbering,And weary I am numberingThe hours which on the stillness break;The hours, which give to others balm,The blessed balm of soothing sleep,My mind in cruel torture keep,And yet demand a perfect calm.The hours whose loss I oft bewailAt close of busy workingday,Now gladly I hear pass away,And the approaching morning hail.And yet their woe hath recompense,Which sleeping mortals do not know,For gentle voices come and go,With solace to the weary sense.From distant meadows comes the soundOf cowbells, stirred at intervals,And to my heart with joy recallsThe age when in their clang I foundSuggestions of a fairy land,When Elfins rang their silver bellsIn flow’ry meads and shady dells,Or on the quiet moonlit strand.I hear the cricket’s autumn song,The ceaseless music of the night,It tells about the summer’s flight,And of its life, so full and strong,Of memories with love aglow,In youth and manhood’s fuller life,Of vanished days with glory rife,Whose joys I ne’er again shall know.And far away the river singsIts lullaby out to the sea,A sense of rest comes over me,Perhaps sweet sleep at last it brings.
The livelong night I lie awake,While all the world is slumbering,And weary I am numberingThe hours which on the stillness break;
The hours, which give to others balm,The blessed balm of soothing sleep,My mind in cruel torture keep,And yet demand a perfect calm.
The hours whose loss I oft bewailAt close of busy workingday,Now gladly I hear pass away,And the approaching morning hail.
And yet their woe hath recompense,Which sleeping mortals do not know,For gentle voices come and go,With solace to the weary sense.
From distant meadows comes the soundOf cowbells, stirred at intervals,And to my heart with joy recallsThe age when in their clang I found
Suggestions of a fairy land,When Elfins rang their silver bellsIn flow’ry meads and shady dells,Or on the quiet moonlit strand.
I hear the cricket’s autumn song,The ceaseless music of the night,It tells about the summer’s flight,And of its life, so full and strong,
Of memories with love aglow,In youth and manhood’s fuller life,Of vanished days with glory rife,Whose joys I ne’er again shall know.
And far away the river singsIts lullaby out to the sea,A sense of rest comes over me,Perhaps sweet sleep at last it brings.
Some morn I shall awake and find life’s dreams are ended,And find its fears and hopes have into meaning blended,And from the gloom of night the day, at last, ascended.To find that storms and waves have into calm subsided,My well-nigh broken bark has into harbor glided,And find the compass true in which my soul confided.
Some morn I shall awake and find life’s dreams are ended,And find its fears and hopes have into meaning blended,And from the gloom of night the day, at last, ascended.To find that storms and waves have into calm subsided,My well-nigh broken bark has into harbor glided,And find the compass true in which my soul confided.
Some morn I shall awake and find life’s dreams are ended,And find its fears and hopes have into meaning blended,And from the gloom of night the day, at last, ascended.
To find that storms and waves have into calm subsided,My well-nigh broken bark has into harbor glided,And find the compass true in which my soul confided.
A bunch of fresh asters, purple and white and red,Stands on my table, fixed in a Mexican bowl,Thanks I did render for food which my body has fed,But not for the blossoms that gladdened and nourished my soul.The joy they awake may be truer thanksgiving,Though wordless, accepted by Him who did say:“Man by the bread alone shall not be living,”And bid us behold the fair lilies that grow by the way.
A bunch of fresh asters, purple and white and red,Stands on my table, fixed in a Mexican bowl,Thanks I did render for food which my body has fed,But not for the blossoms that gladdened and nourished my soul.The joy they awake may be truer thanksgiving,Though wordless, accepted by Him who did say:“Man by the bread alone shall not be living,”And bid us behold the fair lilies that grow by the way.
A bunch of fresh asters, purple and white and red,Stands on my table, fixed in a Mexican bowl,Thanks I did render for food which my body has fed,But not for the blossoms that gladdened and nourished my soul.
The joy they awake may be truer thanksgiving,Though wordless, accepted by Him who did say:“Man by the bread alone shall not be living,”And bid us behold the fair lilies that grow by the way.
I sit on my porch the long after-noon,And dream, and dream, and dream;And the butterflies hover across the lawn,In shadow and golden beam,From flower to flower they flutter and fly,The sweet of their beauty to find,And out of my dream I wake with a cry:“Ah, thus is my unquiet mind!”For the chalice of life has few sweets for me,But mostly some bitter thing,The flowers which I planted with youthful glee,So often their poison bring,And the dreams that I dream are of things that are past,With remorse for their follies and hopes,That the few joys of life so briefly do last,And the noon-day so rapidly slopes.Yet, the butterflies dance for a time without care,And why should I murmur and fret,While the summer is here, and all nature is fair,And gleams mid the shadows are set?I’ll banish remorse and the sorrow which slays,And dance with the butterflies gay,And dream little less, and enter the waysOf things which remain for a day.
I sit on my porch the long after-noon,And dream, and dream, and dream;And the butterflies hover across the lawn,In shadow and golden beam,From flower to flower they flutter and fly,The sweet of their beauty to find,And out of my dream I wake with a cry:“Ah, thus is my unquiet mind!”For the chalice of life has few sweets for me,But mostly some bitter thing,The flowers which I planted with youthful glee,So often their poison bring,And the dreams that I dream are of things that are past,With remorse for their follies and hopes,That the few joys of life so briefly do last,And the noon-day so rapidly slopes.Yet, the butterflies dance for a time without care,And why should I murmur and fret,While the summer is here, and all nature is fair,And gleams mid the shadows are set?I’ll banish remorse and the sorrow which slays,And dance with the butterflies gay,And dream little less, and enter the waysOf things which remain for a day.
I sit on my porch the long after-noon,And dream, and dream, and dream;And the butterflies hover across the lawn,In shadow and golden beam,From flower to flower they flutter and fly,The sweet of their beauty to find,And out of my dream I wake with a cry:“Ah, thus is my unquiet mind!”
For the chalice of life has few sweets for me,But mostly some bitter thing,The flowers which I planted with youthful glee,So often their poison bring,And the dreams that I dream are of things that are past,With remorse for their follies and hopes,That the few joys of life so briefly do last,And the noon-day so rapidly slopes.
Yet, the butterflies dance for a time without care,And why should I murmur and fret,While the summer is here, and all nature is fair,And gleams mid the shadows are set?I’ll banish remorse and the sorrow which slays,And dance with the butterflies gay,And dream little less, and enter the waysOf things which remain for a day.
Against a quivering, golden beam,Where dance a myriad winged things,A rosebush stands, entranced in a dream,While one gay thrush in the elm-tree sings,It sends from wealth of a perfume sweetAn offering up to the happy bard,Whose flood of melody flows to meetThe floating essence of wild-rose nard.The flush of pink amid shades of green,Is like a wreath for a June-day bride,Its crown is decked with a lustrous sheen,Yet it has gloom where the fairies hide,For this is midsummer’s perfect eve,When minds are roving on fancy’s wing,When hearts are young and all things believe,And childhood’s gladness from long since bring.A rare creation, a gift divine,This rosebush is in my garden nook,Whose beauty all of the sacred NineWould fancy more than the wisest book,For not a poet in any ageDid joyful loveliness e’er expressLike that which lolls round the unseen mage,So perfect, charming, and effortless.It stands apart from the world of woe,An yet has balm for the troubled mind,An holy altar where one may knowThe joy of beauty, and solace find,Since God is there as in days of eld,When Moses heard Him ’mid flaming thorn,(For I have always in secret held,That bush had also its roses borne.)From crowds pretentious and gibbering,I turn oppressed to this holy place,Instead of clamor, the thrushes sing,Instead of crudeness, the perfect grace;My soul is free, as I bend to kissThe smiling rose, whose enchanting breathFills all my being with such a bliss,That I could wish it the sting of death.
Against a quivering, golden beam,Where dance a myriad winged things,A rosebush stands, entranced in a dream,While one gay thrush in the elm-tree sings,It sends from wealth of a perfume sweetAn offering up to the happy bard,Whose flood of melody flows to meetThe floating essence of wild-rose nard.The flush of pink amid shades of green,Is like a wreath for a June-day bride,Its crown is decked with a lustrous sheen,Yet it has gloom where the fairies hide,For this is midsummer’s perfect eve,When minds are roving on fancy’s wing,When hearts are young and all things believe,And childhood’s gladness from long since bring.A rare creation, a gift divine,This rosebush is in my garden nook,Whose beauty all of the sacred NineWould fancy more than the wisest book,For not a poet in any ageDid joyful loveliness e’er expressLike that which lolls round the unseen mage,So perfect, charming, and effortless.It stands apart from the world of woe,An yet has balm for the troubled mind,An holy altar where one may knowThe joy of beauty, and solace find,Since God is there as in days of eld,When Moses heard Him ’mid flaming thorn,(For I have always in secret held,That bush had also its roses borne.)From crowds pretentious and gibbering,I turn oppressed to this holy place,Instead of clamor, the thrushes sing,Instead of crudeness, the perfect grace;My soul is free, as I bend to kissThe smiling rose, whose enchanting breathFills all my being with such a bliss,That I could wish it the sting of death.
Against a quivering, golden beam,Where dance a myriad winged things,A rosebush stands, entranced in a dream,While one gay thrush in the elm-tree sings,It sends from wealth of a perfume sweetAn offering up to the happy bard,Whose flood of melody flows to meetThe floating essence of wild-rose nard.
The flush of pink amid shades of green,Is like a wreath for a June-day bride,Its crown is decked with a lustrous sheen,Yet it has gloom where the fairies hide,For this is midsummer’s perfect eve,When minds are roving on fancy’s wing,When hearts are young and all things believe,And childhood’s gladness from long since bring.
A rare creation, a gift divine,This rosebush is in my garden nook,Whose beauty all of the sacred NineWould fancy more than the wisest book,For not a poet in any ageDid joyful loveliness e’er expressLike that which lolls round the unseen mage,So perfect, charming, and effortless.
It stands apart from the world of woe,An yet has balm for the troubled mind,An holy altar where one may knowThe joy of beauty, and solace find,Since God is there as in days of eld,When Moses heard Him ’mid flaming thorn,(For I have always in secret held,That bush had also its roses borne.)
From crowds pretentious and gibbering,I turn oppressed to this holy place,Instead of clamor, the thrushes sing,Instead of crudeness, the perfect grace;My soul is free, as I bend to kissThe smiling rose, whose enchanting breathFills all my being with such a bliss,That I could wish it the sting of death.
There’s a golden light on one side of the tree,On the other there is a shadow,The shadowy side goes out to me,The other runs down to the meadow,And the light is beckoning me awayTo the leas and fields of new-mown hay,Beckoning out from the shadow.There’s a shadowyness on one side of the tree,On the other a golden light,And the shadowy side is inviting meTo rest in its sweet delight,For the porches are wide, and the ladies are fair,And the heat of the sun is not striking there,—And I stand at the tree in a plight.
There’s a golden light on one side of the tree,On the other there is a shadow,The shadowy side goes out to me,The other runs down to the meadow,And the light is beckoning me awayTo the leas and fields of new-mown hay,Beckoning out from the shadow.There’s a shadowyness on one side of the tree,On the other a golden light,And the shadowy side is inviting meTo rest in its sweet delight,For the porches are wide, and the ladies are fair,And the heat of the sun is not striking there,—And I stand at the tree in a plight.
There’s a golden light on one side of the tree,On the other there is a shadow,The shadowy side goes out to me,The other runs down to the meadow,And the light is beckoning me awayTo the leas and fields of new-mown hay,Beckoning out from the shadow.
There’s a shadowyness on one side of the tree,On the other a golden light,And the shadowy side is inviting meTo rest in its sweet delight,For the porches are wide, and the ladies are fair,And the heat of the sun is not striking there,—And I stand at the tree in a plight.
Thou art, and there is nought besides Thee!Man’s myriad errors in thought and striving,Seen and unseen, are not of Thee!They are not,—But self-eliminating,—Since Thou alone art Truth and Love.What is of man’s finitenessIs nothing in Thy Everlastingness;—He only is; That only is,Which is a part of Thee in mind or matter!
Thou art, and there is nought besides Thee!Man’s myriad errors in thought and striving,Seen and unseen, are not of Thee!They are not,—But self-eliminating,—Since Thou alone art Truth and Love.What is of man’s finitenessIs nothing in Thy Everlastingness;—He only is; That only is,Which is a part of Thee in mind or matter!
Thou art, and there is nought besides Thee!Man’s myriad errors in thought and striving,Seen and unseen, are not of Thee!They are not,—But self-eliminating,—Since Thou alone art Truth and Love.
What is of man’s finitenessIs nothing in Thy Everlastingness;—He only is; That only is,Which is a part of Thee in mind or matter!
I heard a chant and a wailing,Among the wooded hills,From an Indian hut where they carried awayA man from his earthly ills.The black-garbed women were chantingThe weirdest song I have heard—An Indian lamentation,Till nature itself seemed stirred.And my heart was filled with pity,As I saw that band forlorn,Its poverty and sorrow—On that bright September morn.And I thought of their ancient story,When the country was all their own,And they dwelt ’mid its unshorn glory—A splendor to us unknown—The glory of forest and prairie,A-teeming with herds and game,And the rivers and streams and glittering lakes—For food but another name.When they were lords of the realms they surveyed,And lived to their heart’s content,Till the white man came and robbed themOf all but their rotting tent.And the chiefs sat down in the ashesMid the hearth-stones of the past,And a race of pride and adventureStood round with eyes downcast.And the songs of the chase and the battle,And the ballads of joy were hushed—But the death-chant is still remembered,By hearts that are sad and crushed.And it seemed like the wail of a peopleWhose sun upon earth has set—The chant of the weeping women,And the men to burial met.
I heard a chant and a wailing,Among the wooded hills,From an Indian hut where they carried awayA man from his earthly ills.The black-garbed women were chantingThe weirdest song I have heard—An Indian lamentation,Till nature itself seemed stirred.And my heart was filled with pity,As I saw that band forlorn,Its poverty and sorrow—On that bright September morn.And I thought of their ancient story,When the country was all their own,And they dwelt ’mid its unshorn glory—A splendor to us unknown—The glory of forest and prairie,A-teeming with herds and game,And the rivers and streams and glittering lakes—For food but another name.When they were lords of the realms they surveyed,And lived to their heart’s content,Till the white man came and robbed themOf all but their rotting tent.And the chiefs sat down in the ashesMid the hearth-stones of the past,And a race of pride and adventureStood round with eyes downcast.And the songs of the chase and the battle,And the ballads of joy were hushed—But the death-chant is still remembered,By hearts that are sad and crushed.And it seemed like the wail of a peopleWhose sun upon earth has set—The chant of the weeping women,And the men to burial met.
I heard a chant and a wailing,Among the wooded hills,From an Indian hut where they carried awayA man from his earthly ills.
The black-garbed women were chantingThe weirdest song I have heard—An Indian lamentation,Till nature itself seemed stirred.
And my heart was filled with pity,As I saw that band forlorn,Its poverty and sorrow—On that bright September morn.
And I thought of their ancient story,When the country was all their own,And they dwelt ’mid its unshorn glory—A splendor to us unknown—
The glory of forest and prairie,A-teeming with herds and game,And the rivers and streams and glittering lakes—For food but another name.
When they were lords of the realms they surveyed,And lived to their heart’s content,Till the white man came and robbed themOf all but their rotting tent.
And the chiefs sat down in the ashesMid the hearth-stones of the past,And a race of pride and adventureStood round with eyes downcast.
And the songs of the chase and the battle,And the ballads of joy were hushed—But the death-chant is still remembered,By hearts that are sad and crushed.
And it seemed like the wail of a peopleWhose sun upon earth has set—The chant of the weeping women,And the men to burial met.
I wrote a letter from my heart,Aglow with pain and passion,In angry words and sudden startOf pity and compassion.The thing was done in utmost haste,The pen inclined to caper,I count it now an awful wasteOf rather decent paper.And when the thing, I had achieved,Was folded in my pocket,My soul felt wondrously relieved,Spent, like a fiery rocket.When I did think of sending it,I made a vague decision,That it should wait a little bit,Ere going on its mission.It waited one, it waited twoAnd three days for the mailing,And on the fourth myself did goWhere it was sure of failing.Upon our journey did we crossA stream of gentle flowing,Where I impulsively did toss,Against the breezes blowing,—The letter torn to smithereens,Like snowflakes slow descending,Received by lambent hyalinesAnd current gaily wending.Thus on the river’s peaceful breastMy words of pain were carried,Some swiftly with the stream’s unrest,And some did longer tarry.And to the sea may be they sailed,Where ocean swells are moaning,Where life’s great agony is wailedMid nature’s endless groaning.Though nought is lost, yet it is wellTo let the fiery letterFind such a fate, for it will quellThings that destroy the better.And this advice I freely give:Write down your spirit’s frowning,For three days let it lonely live,Then kill it all by drowning.
I wrote a letter from my heart,Aglow with pain and passion,In angry words and sudden startOf pity and compassion.The thing was done in utmost haste,The pen inclined to caper,I count it now an awful wasteOf rather decent paper.And when the thing, I had achieved,Was folded in my pocket,My soul felt wondrously relieved,Spent, like a fiery rocket.When I did think of sending it,I made a vague decision,That it should wait a little bit,Ere going on its mission.It waited one, it waited twoAnd three days for the mailing,And on the fourth myself did goWhere it was sure of failing.Upon our journey did we crossA stream of gentle flowing,Where I impulsively did toss,Against the breezes blowing,—The letter torn to smithereens,Like snowflakes slow descending,Received by lambent hyalinesAnd current gaily wending.Thus on the river’s peaceful breastMy words of pain were carried,Some swiftly with the stream’s unrest,And some did longer tarry.And to the sea may be they sailed,Where ocean swells are moaning,Where life’s great agony is wailedMid nature’s endless groaning.Though nought is lost, yet it is wellTo let the fiery letterFind such a fate, for it will quellThings that destroy the better.And this advice I freely give:Write down your spirit’s frowning,For three days let it lonely live,Then kill it all by drowning.
I wrote a letter from my heart,Aglow with pain and passion,In angry words and sudden startOf pity and compassion.
The thing was done in utmost haste,The pen inclined to caper,I count it now an awful wasteOf rather decent paper.
And when the thing, I had achieved,Was folded in my pocket,My soul felt wondrously relieved,Spent, like a fiery rocket.
When I did think of sending it,I made a vague decision,That it should wait a little bit,Ere going on its mission.
It waited one, it waited twoAnd three days for the mailing,And on the fourth myself did goWhere it was sure of failing.
Upon our journey did we crossA stream of gentle flowing,Where I impulsively did toss,Against the breezes blowing,—
The letter torn to smithereens,Like snowflakes slow descending,Received by lambent hyalinesAnd current gaily wending.
Thus on the river’s peaceful breastMy words of pain were carried,Some swiftly with the stream’s unrest,And some did longer tarry.
And to the sea may be they sailed,Where ocean swells are moaning,Where life’s great agony is wailedMid nature’s endless groaning.
Though nought is lost, yet it is wellTo let the fiery letterFind such a fate, for it will quellThings that destroy the better.
And this advice I freely give:Write down your spirit’s frowning,For three days let it lonely live,Then kill it all by drowning.
The poet is no liar. No!Though truth may not be toldBy him, just so, and so,—By weight, and measure, or the coldAnd soulless numbers—By facts, so called, that cloy and cumberThe Psyche in its flightInto that heavenly lightOf things, which children know,—And poets see and feelIn beauty, which is truth,Whose life-inspiring glowSometimes doth stealUpon him, as does love upon the youth,And moves his heart to song—The music of his being,Whose notes are pure and strong,While he is seeingGod’s Seraphims, and allThe earth replete with glory,—And hears the callFrom ages hoaryTo his own day, and times to be—The voice of God;Truth-teller he,Despite the rodOf proud custodiansOf labelled “scientific facts” sansPoetry,—Before whom he refuses to bend knee;—Truth-teller he, because to him was givenThe vision to behold—the glory-trail of heaven,In little things and great,In life, and death, and destiny, and fate.
The poet is no liar. No!Though truth may not be toldBy him, just so, and so,—By weight, and measure, or the coldAnd soulless numbers—By facts, so called, that cloy and cumberThe Psyche in its flightInto that heavenly lightOf things, which children know,—And poets see and feelIn beauty, which is truth,Whose life-inspiring glowSometimes doth stealUpon him, as does love upon the youth,And moves his heart to song—The music of his being,Whose notes are pure and strong,While he is seeingGod’s Seraphims, and allThe earth replete with glory,—And hears the callFrom ages hoaryTo his own day, and times to be—The voice of God;Truth-teller he,Despite the rodOf proud custodiansOf labelled “scientific facts” sansPoetry,—Before whom he refuses to bend knee;—Truth-teller he, because to him was givenThe vision to behold—the glory-trail of heaven,In little things and great,In life, and death, and destiny, and fate.
The poet is no liar. No!Though truth may not be toldBy him, just so, and so,—By weight, and measure, or the coldAnd soulless numbers—By facts, so called, that cloy and cumberThe Psyche in its flightInto that heavenly lightOf things, which children know,—And poets see and feelIn beauty, which is truth,Whose life-inspiring glowSometimes doth stealUpon him, as does love upon the youth,And moves his heart to song—The music of his being,Whose notes are pure and strong,While he is seeingGod’s Seraphims, and allThe earth replete with glory,—And hears the callFrom ages hoaryTo his own day, and times to be—The voice of God;Truth-teller he,Despite the rodOf proud custodiansOf labelled “scientific facts” sansPoetry,—Before whom he refuses to bend knee;—Truth-teller he, because to him was givenThe vision to behold—the glory-trail of heaven,In little things and great,In life, and death, and destiny, and fate.
(Suggested by Gottschalk’s composition, “The Dying Poet.”)
(Suggested by Gottschalk’s composition, “The Dying Poet.”)
Life’s checkered dream is over,Ended its joys and woes;Silent the bard and the loverDown to the valley goes;Down to the dark, broad riverWanders his restless soul,Into the vast Forever,Which he so oft heard call,—Ever, forever,Singing through each and all.Over him spirits hover,Spirits who knew his life,Knew all that holy power—Wasted in grief and strife,—Knew how he gave, not heedingSordidness, greed and sin,Knew how his heart was bleeding,Only the true to win,—Ever, forever,Living within.Music too vast for language,Bursting the bonds and bounds,Now shall be free from anguish,Free from discordant sounds,Finding what here it neverReached in its noblest fight,The cadence of life’s forever,The glory of deathless light,—Ever, forever,Leading him through the night.Pale now the brow of the singer,Undecked by laurel-wreath,Only a few friends linger,To whom he his songs bequeathed;But a host is waiting yonder,Whose praise on his ears doth burst,And the soul, who does lonely wander,Shall quench its immortal thirst,—Ever, forever,And the things that are last shall be first.
Life’s checkered dream is over,Ended its joys and woes;Silent the bard and the loverDown to the valley goes;Down to the dark, broad riverWanders his restless soul,Into the vast Forever,Which he so oft heard call,—Ever, forever,Singing through each and all.Over him spirits hover,Spirits who knew his life,Knew all that holy power—Wasted in grief and strife,—Knew how he gave, not heedingSordidness, greed and sin,Knew how his heart was bleeding,Only the true to win,—Ever, forever,Living within.Music too vast for language,Bursting the bonds and bounds,Now shall be free from anguish,Free from discordant sounds,Finding what here it neverReached in its noblest fight,The cadence of life’s forever,The glory of deathless light,—Ever, forever,Leading him through the night.Pale now the brow of the singer,Undecked by laurel-wreath,Only a few friends linger,To whom he his songs bequeathed;But a host is waiting yonder,Whose praise on his ears doth burst,And the soul, who does lonely wander,Shall quench its immortal thirst,—Ever, forever,And the things that are last shall be first.
Life’s checkered dream is over,Ended its joys and woes;Silent the bard and the loverDown to the valley goes;Down to the dark, broad riverWanders his restless soul,Into the vast Forever,Which he so oft heard call,—Ever, forever,Singing through each and all.
Over him spirits hover,Spirits who knew his life,Knew all that holy power—Wasted in grief and strife,—Knew how he gave, not heedingSordidness, greed and sin,Knew how his heart was bleeding,Only the true to win,—Ever, forever,Living within.
Music too vast for language,Bursting the bonds and bounds,Now shall be free from anguish,Free from discordant sounds,Finding what here it neverReached in its noblest fight,The cadence of life’s forever,The glory of deathless light,—Ever, forever,Leading him through the night.
Pale now the brow of the singer,Undecked by laurel-wreath,Only a few friends linger,To whom he his songs bequeathed;But a host is waiting yonder,Whose praise on his ears doth burst,And the soul, who does lonely wander,Shall quench its immortal thirst,—Ever, forever,And the things that are last shall be first.
The snow was new, and soft, and deep,The forest far away from me,And yet how could I Christmas keepWithout a perfect Christmas tree?So I set out, a boy of twelve,With sled in hand to reach the pines,And through the snow made for myselfA track amid most wild confines.Beneath the lofty trees there stoodFull many a little evergreen,And all were straight, and seemed quite good,But not a perfect one was seen.I waded on from tree to tree,And thought, at times my choice I’d found,But lo, it lacked true symmetry,True symmetry from top to ground.And thus the afternoon was spent,Until the evening-shadows fell,My axe, at last, was deftly sentInto a spruce, each stroke did tellIts fate through all the silent wood,On echoes distant, echoes near,Which seemed to say in mocking mood:“The perfect one is here—is here!”My ardor for the perfect oneSubsided as I strapped my prize,Half of my strength was also gone,And easy was the compromise.My basking in the new-fall’n snowHad drenched me and brought on a chill,The homeward journey, long and slow,Sent me to bed severely ill.Long was I racked with fever’s fire,My life was like a flick’ring light,They thought its last gleam would expireAmid the storm of New Year’s night.Thus did I almost pay full scoreFor that my first and youthful questFor perfectness, and evermoreI’ve found this is her stern behest:Who would find me must give his all,And even then may sorely fail,But it adds glory to the soulTo walk in the Immortal’s trail.
The snow was new, and soft, and deep,The forest far away from me,And yet how could I Christmas keepWithout a perfect Christmas tree?So I set out, a boy of twelve,With sled in hand to reach the pines,And through the snow made for myselfA track amid most wild confines.Beneath the lofty trees there stoodFull many a little evergreen,And all were straight, and seemed quite good,But not a perfect one was seen.I waded on from tree to tree,And thought, at times my choice I’d found,But lo, it lacked true symmetry,True symmetry from top to ground.And thus the afternoon was spent,Until the evening-shadows fell,My axe, at last, was deftly sentInto a spruce, each stroke did tellIts fate through all the silent wood,On echoes distant, echoes near,Which seemed to say in mocking mood:“The perfect one is here—is here!”My ardor for the perfect oneSubsided as I strapped my prize,Half of my strength was also gone,And easy was the compromise.My basking in the new-fall’n snowHad drenched me and brought on a chill,The homeward journey, long and slow,Sent me to bed severely ill.Long was I racked with fever’s fire,My life was like a flick’ring light,They thought its last gleam would expireAmid the storm of New Year’s night.Thus did I almost pay full scoreFor that my first and youthful questFor perfectness, and evermoreI’ve found this is her stern behest:Who would find me must give his all,And even then may sorely fail,But it adds glory to the soulTo walk in the Immortal’s trail.
The snow was new, and soft, and deep,The forest far away from me,And yet how could I Christmas keepWithout a perfect Christmas tree?
So I set out, a boy of twelve,With sled in hand to reach the pines,And through the snow made for myselfA track amid most wild confines.
Beneath the lofty trees there stoodFull many a little evergreen,And all were straight, and seemed quite good,But not a perfect one was seen.
I waded on from tree to tree,And thought, at times my choice I’d found,But lo, it lacked true symmetry,True symmetry from top to ground.
And thus the afternoon was spent,Until the evening-shadows fell,My axe, at last, was deftly sentInto a spruce, each stroke did tell
Its fate through all the silent wood,On echoes distant, echoes near,Which seemed to say in mocking mood:“The perfect one is here—is here!”
My ardor for the perfect oneSubsided as I strapped my prize,Half of my strength was also gone,And easy was the compromise.
My basking in the new-fall’n snowHad drenched me and brought on a chill,The homeward journey, long and slow,Sent me to bed severely ill.
Long was I racked with fever’s fire,My life was like a flick’ring light,They thought its last gleam would expireAmid the storm of New Year’s night.
Thus did I almost pay full scoreFor that my first and youthful questFor perfectness, and evermoreI’ve found this is her stern behest:
Who would find me must give his all,And even then may sorely fail,But it adds glory to the soulTo walk in the Immortal’s trail.
Born on the desert’s sandy plain,Born among thorns and heat and pain,Brought to my home, amid cold and snow,Unfolding blossoms of blood-drop glory,Telling in symbol the Christ-child story,And the way that He still must go.For tokens of joy in a world of woe,’Mid sorrow and loneliness often grow,The word of truth and the song’s clear strain,That warms the heart when the earth is frozen,The Lord of life has nourished and chosenIn deserts of thorns and pain.But the beauty and joy of my Cactus flowerHas sweetest meaning at that great hour,When the church-bells ring on Christmas eve,Then its crimson seems with a wonder glowing,And from its petals a love is flowing,Which none but Christ can give.
Born on the desert’s sandy plain,Born among thorns and heat and pain,Brought to my home, amid cold and snow,Unfolding blossoms of blood-drop glory,Telling in symbol the Christ-child story,And the way that He still must go.For tokens of joy in a world of woe,’Mid sorrow and loneliness often grow,The word of truth and the song’s clear strain,That warms the heart when the earth is frozen,The Lord of life has nourished and chosenIn deserts of thorns and pain.But the beauty and joy of my Cactus flowerHas sweetest meaning at that great hour,When the church-bells ring on Christmas eve,Then its crimson seems with a wonder glowing,And from its petals a love is flowing,Which none but Christ can give.
Born on the desert’s sandy plain,Born among thorns and heat and pain,Brought to my home, amid cold and snow,Unfolding blossoms of blood-drop glory,Telling in symbol the Christ-child story,And the way that He still must go.
For tokens of joy in a world of woe,’Mid sorrow and loneliness often grow,The word of truth and the song’s clear strain,That warms the heart when the earth is frozen,The Lord of life has nourished and chosenIn deserts of thorns and pain.
But the beauty and joy of my Cactus flowerHas sweetest meaning at that great hour,When the church-bells ring on Christmas eve,Then its crimson seems with a wonder glowing,And from its petals a love is flowing,Which none but Christ can give.
Night, and a lonely star,Night, with its deep repose,A gleam of light from afar—To souls oppressed with woes.Light of the Bethlehem-starOn the inn and the shepherd-cotes,That breaks o’er the golden bar,Whence the angel-anthem floats.Song of peace upon earth,Peace which to heaven has fled,But shall find its second birth,Where the blood of millions is shed.“Peace and good will to men!”Verily ’tis His voice,Bidding us trust again,Yea, even in hope to rejoice.Let us follow the guiding ray,Let us go to the manger and seeThe things which the angel did say,The things that must surely be.And our doubts and our fears shall cease,As we enter the holy place,Where dwelleth the Prince of Peace,The Christ-child of love and grace.Like children we there will bendOurselves in true adoration,And humbly in worship blendWith every people and nation.And sing with the unseen choir:“A Saviour to us is born!”Till kindles the heavenly fireIn our hearts on Christmas morn.
Night, and a lonely star,Night, with its deep repose,A gleam of light from afar—To souls oppressed with woes.Light of the Bethlehem-starOn the inn and the shepherd-cotes,That breaks o’er the golden bar,Whence the angel-anthem floats.Song of peace upon earth,Peace which to heaven has fled,But shall find its second birth,Where the blood of millions is shed.“Peace and good will to men!”Verily ’tis His voice,Bidding us trust again,Yea, even in hope to rejoice.Let us follow the guiding ray,Let us go to the manger and seeThe things which the angel did say,The things that must surely be.And our doubts and our fears shall cease,As we enter the holy place,Where dwelleth the Prince of Peace,The Christ-child of love and grace.Like children we there will bendOurselves in true adoration,And humbly in worship blendWith every people and nation.And sing with the unseen choir:“A Saviour to us is born!”Till kindles the heavenly fireIn our hearts on Christmas morn.
Night, and a lonely star,Night, with its deep repose,A gleam of light from afar—To souls oppressed with woes.
Light of the Bethlehem-starOn the inn and the shepherd-cotes,That breaks o’er the golden bar,Whence the angel-anthem floats.
Song of peace upon earth,Peace which to heaven has fled,But shall find its second birth,Where the blood of millions is shed.
“Peace and good will to men!”Verily ’tis His voice,Bidding us trust again,Yea, even in hope to rejoice.
Let us follow the guiding ray,Let us go to the manger and seeThe things which the angel did say,The things that must surely be.
And our doubts and our fears shall cease,As we enter the holy place,Where dwelleth the Prince of Peace,The Christ-child of love and grace.
Like children we there will bendOurselves in true adoration,And humbly in worship blendWith every people and nation.
And sing with the unseen choir:“A Saviour to us is born!”Till kindles the heavenly fireIn our hearts on Christmas morn.
Lord in this hour of tempest dread,Be Thou our stay!While boisterous billows lift their headUpon our way;While angry clouds the sun obscure,Be Thou our light!And give us courage to endureThe night!Deliver us from coward’s fear,And craven’s wish for pleasure.Help us defend what is most dear,With love’s full measure,—The Liberty our fathers wonThrough storm and bloody fray,The Liberty of Washington,Of Lincoln, and of Clay!Grant us to guard this heritageFor all mankind,That when the world shall cease to rage,It here may findThe gift of Heaven, beyond all price,To show the way,That through this awful sacrificeMay dawn a better day!We know not what the year will bringOf loss and sorrow;But help us Thou in faith to singOf every morrowAs that of hope and victory,And larger meed,With trust that Thou wilt ever beOur help in need!Thus we will breast the darkest storm,Since not alone,And confident, Thou wilt perform,At last enthrone,Thy righteous acts among all men,And tyrants overthrow;Grant that this year’s recording penSuch victories may know! Amen.
Lord in this hour of tempest dread,Be Thou our stay!While boisterous billows lift their headUpon our way;While angry clouds the sun obscure,Be Thou our light!And give us courage to endureThe night!Deliver us from coward’s fear,And craven’s wish for pleasure.Help us defend what is most dear,With love’s full measure,—The Liberty our fathers wonThrough storm and bloody fray,The Liberty of Washington,Of Lincoln, and of Clay!Grant us to guard this heritageFor all mankind,That when the world shall cease to rage,It here may findThe gift of Heaven, beyond all price,To show the way,That through this awful sacrificeMay dawn a better day!We know not what the year will bringOf loss and sorrow;But help us Thou in faith to singOf every morrowAs that of hope and victory,And larger meed,With trust that Thou wilt ever beOur help in need!Thus we will breast the darkest storm,Since not alone,And confident, Thou wilt perform,At last enthrone,Thy righteous acts among all men,And tyrants overthrow;Grant that this year’s recording penSuch victories may know! Amen.
Lord in this hour of tempest dread,Be Thou our stay!While boisterous billows lift their headUpon our way;While angry clouds the sun obscure,Be Thou our light!And give us courage to endureThe night!
Deliver us from coward’s fear,And craven’s wish for pleasure.Help us defend what is most dear,With love’s full measure,—The Liberty our fathers wonThrough storm and bloody fray,The Liberty of Washington,Of Lincoln, and of Clay!
Grant us to guard this heritageFor all mankind,That when the world shall cease to rage,It here may findThe gift of Heaven, beyond all price,To show the way,That through this awful sacrificeMay dawn a better day!
We know not what the year will bringOf loss and sorrow;But help us Thou in faith to singOf every morrowAs that of hope and victory,And larger meed,With trust that Thou wilt ever beOur help in need!
Thus we will breast the darkest storm,Since not alone,And confident, Thou wilt perform,At last enthrone,Thy righteous acts among all men,And tyrants overthrow;Grant that this year’s recording penSuch victories may know! Amen.
Our souls have need of Easter—Of resurrection light,For never times were trister,Nor darker seemed the night.Our souls have need of EasterWith sunrise on the tomb,For Mary has many a sisterWho weeps within the gloom.Our souls have need of Easter,Its lily pure and sweet,As when the day-dawn kissed herBefore the Saviour’s feet.Our souls have need of Easter,With angel heraldry,Which breaks the base and bisterSeal of the Pharisee.Our souls have need of Easter,With faith more glad and strong,To be the firm resisterOf untruth and the wrong.Our souls have need of Easter,Which scatter’s arméd foe,Whose bloody spears still glisterWhere midnight watch-fires glow.Our souls have need of Easter,With gleams of victoryO’er powers dark and sinister,And cruel tyranny.
Our souls have need of Easter—Of resurrection light,For never times were trister,Nor darker seemed the night.Our souls have need of EasterWith sunrise on the tomb,For Mary has many a sisterWho weeps within the gloom.Our souls have need of Easter,Its lily pure and sweet,As when the day-dawn kissed herBefore the Saviour’s feet.Our souls have need of Easter,With angel heraldry,Which breaks the base and bisterSeal of the Pharisee.Our souls have need of Easter,With faith more glad and strong,To be the firm resisterOf untruth and the wrong.Our souls have need of Easter,Which scatter’s arméd foe,Whose bloody spears still glisterWhere midnight watch-fires glow.Our souls have need of Easter,With gleams of victoryO’er powers dark and sinister,And cruel tyranny.
Our souls have need of Easter—Of resurrection light,For never times were trister,Nor darker seemed the night.
Our souls have need of EasterWith sunrise on the tomb,For Mary has many a sisterWho weeps within the gloom.
Our souls have need of Easter,Its lily pure and sweet,As when the day-dawn kissed herBefore the Saviour’s feet.
Our souls have need of Easter,With angel heraldry,Which breaks the base and bisterSeal of the Pharisee.
Our souls have need of Easter,With faith more glad and strong,To be the firm resisterOf untruth and the wrong.
Our souls have need of Easter,Which scatter’s arméd foe,Whose bloody spears still glisterWhere midnight watch-fires glow.
Our souls have need of Easter,With gleams of victoryO’er powers dark and sinister,And cruel tyranny.