The Poems of Henry Van Dyke

When down the stair at morning
  The sunbeams round her float,
Sweet rivulets of laughter
  Are rippling in her throat;
The gladness of her greeting
  Is gold without alloy;
And in the morning sunlight
  I think her name is Joy.

When in the evening twilight
  The quiet book-room lies,
We read the sad old ballads,
  While from her hidden eyes
The tears are falling, falling,
  That give her heart relief;
And in the evening twilight,
  I think her name is Grief.

My little April lady,
  Of sunshine and of showers
She weaves the old spring magic,
  And my heart breaks in flowers!
But when her moods are ended,
  She nestles like a dove;
Then, by the pain and rapture,
  I know her name is Love.

I envy every flower that blows
Along the meadow where she goes,
  And every bird that sings to her,
  And every breeze that brings to her
    The fragrance of the rose.

I envy every poet's rhyme
That moves her heart at eventime,
  And every tree that wears for her
  Its brightest bloom, and bears for her
    The fruitage of its prime.

I envy every Southern night
That paves her path with moonbeams white,
  And silvers all the leaves for her,
  And in their shadow weaves for her
    A dream of dear delight.

I envy none whose love requires
Of her a gift, a task that tires:
  I only long to live to her,
  I only ask to give to her,
    All that her heart desires.

Like a long arrow through the dark the train is darting,
  Bearing me far away, after a perfect day of love's delight:
Wakeful with all the sad-sweet memories of parting,
  I lift the narrow window-shade and look out on the night.

Lonely the land unknown, and like a river flowing,
  Forest and field and hill are gliding backward still athwart my dream;
Till in that country strange, and ever stranger growing,
  A magic city full of lights begins to glow and gleam.

Wide through the landscape dim the lamps are lit in millions;
  Long avenues unfold clear-shining lines of gold across the green;
Clusters and rings of light, and luminous pavilions,—
  Oh, who will tell the city's name, and what these wonders mean?

Look how the glittering lines are wavering and lifting,—
  Softly the breeze of night scatters the vision bright: and, passing fair,
Over the meadow-grass and through the forest drifting,
  The Fire-Fly City of the Dark is lost in empty air!

“Through many a land your journey ran,
  And showed the best the world can boast:
Now tell me, traveller, if you can,
  The place that pleased you most.”

She laid her hands upon my breast,
  And murmured gently in my ear,
“The place I loved and liked the best
  Was in your arms, my dear!”

Yes, it was like you to forget,
And cancel in the welcome of your smile
My deep arrears of debt,
And with the putting forth of both your hands
To sweep away the bars my folly set
Between us—bitter thoughts, and harsh demands,
And reckless deeds that seemed untrue
To love, when all the while
My heart was aching through and through
For you, sweet heart, and only you.

Yet, as I turned to come to you again,
I thought there must be many a mile
Of sorrowful reproach to cross,
And many an hour of mutual pain
To bear, until I could make plain
That all my pride was but the fear of loss,
And all my doubt the shadow of despair
To win a heart so innocent and fair;
And even that which looked most ill
Was but the fever-fret and effort vain
To dull the thirst which you alone could still.

None but a queen could pardon me like this!
My sovereign lady, let me lay
Within each rosy palm a loyal kiss
Of penitence, then close the fingers up,
Thus—thus! Now give the cup
Of full nepenthe in your crimson mouth,
And come—the garden blooms with bliss,
The wind is in the south,
The rose of love with dew is wet—
Dear, it was like you to forget!

How long is the night, brother,
  And how long is the day?
Oh, the day's too short for a happy task,
  And the day's too short for play;
And the night's too short for the bliss of love,
  For look, how the edge of the sky grows gray,
While the stars die out in the blue above,
  And the wan moon fades away.

How short is the day, brother,
  And how short is the night?
Oh, the day's too long for a heavy task,
  And long, long, long is the night,
When the wakeful hours are filled with pain,
  And the sad heart waits for the thing it fears,
And sighs for the dawn to come again,—
  The night is a thousand years!

How long is a life, dear God,
  And how fast does it flow?
The measure of life is a flame in the soul:
  It is neither swift nor slow.
But the vision of time is the shadow cast
  By the fleeting world on the body's wall;
When it fades there is neither future nor past,
  But love is all in all.

Her eyes are like the evening air,
  Her voice is like a rose,
Her lips are like a lovely song,
  That ripples as it flows,
And she herself is sweeter than
  The sweetest thing she knows.

A slender, haunting, twilight form
  Of wonder and surprise,
She seemed a fairy or a child,
  Till, deep within her eyes,
I saw the homeward-leading star
  Of womanhood arise.

Across a thousand miles of sea, a hundred leagues of land,
Along a path I had not traced and could not understand,
I travelled fast and far for this,—to take thee by the hand.

A pilgrim knowing not the shrine where he would bend his knee,
A mariner without a dream of what his port would be,
So fared I with a seeking heart until I came to thee.

O cooler than a grove of palm in some heat-weary place,
O fairer than an isle of calm after the wild sea race,
The quiet room adorned with flowers where first I saw thy face!

Then furl the sail, let fall the oar, forget the paths of foam!
The fate that made me wander far at last has brought me home
To thee, dear haven of my heart, and I no more will roam.

Oh, why are you shining so bright, big Sun,
  And why is the garden so gay?
Do you know that my days of delight are done,
  Do you know I am going away?
If you covered your face with a cloud, I'd dream
  You were sorry for me in my pain,
And the heavily drooping flowers would seem
  To be weeping with me in the rain.

But why is your head so low, sweet heart,
  And why are your eyes overcast?
Are you crying because you know we must part,
  Do you think this embrace is our last?
Then kiss me again, and again, and again,
  Look up as you bid me good-bye!
For your face is too dear for the stain of a tear,
  And your smile is the sun in my sky.

I

Once, only once, I saw it clear,—
That Eden every human heart has dreamed
A hundred times, but always far away!
Ah, well do I remember how it seemed,
Through the still atmosphere
Of that enchanted day,
To lie wide open to my weary feet:
A little land of love and joy and rest,
With meadows of soft green,
Rosy with cyclamen, and sweet
With delicate breath of violets unseen,—
And, tranquil 'mid the bloom
As if it waited for a coming guest,
A little house of peace and joy and love
Was nested like a snow-white dove.

II

III

IV

At break of day I crossed the wooded vale;
And while the morning made
A trembling light among the tree-tops pale,
I saw the sable birds on every limb,
Clinging together closely in the shade,
And croaking placidly their surly hymn.
But, oh, the little land of peace and love
That those night-loving wings had poised above,—
Where was it gone?
Lost, lost, forevermore!
Only a cottage, dull and gray,
In the cold light of dawn,
With iron bars across the door:
Only a garden where the drooping head
Of one sad rose, foreboding its decay,
Hung o'er a barren bed:
Only a desolate field that lay
Untilled beneath the desolate day,—
Where Eden seemed to bloom I found but these!
So, wondering, I passed along my way,
With anger in my heart, too deep for words,
Against that grove of evil-sheltering trees,
And the black magic of the croaking birds.

If I have erred in showing all my heart,
  And lost your favour by a lack of pride;
  If standing like a beggar at your side
With naked feet, I have forgot the art
Of those who bargain well in passion's mart,
  And win the thing they want by what they hide;
  Be mine the fault as mine the hope denied,
Be mine the lover's and the loser's part.

The sin, if sin it was, I do repent,
  And take the penance on myself alone;
Yet after I have borne the punishment,
  I shall not fear to stand before the throne
Of Love with open heart, and make this plea:
“At least I have not lied to her nor Thee!”

You only promised me a single hour:
  But in that hour I journeyed through a year
  Of life: the joy of finding you,—the fear
Of losing you again,—the sense of power
To make you all my own,—the sudden shower
  Of tears that came because you were more dear
  Than words could ever tell you,—then,—the clear
Soft rapture when I plucked love's crimson flower.

An hour,—a year,—I felt your bosom rise
  And fall with mystic tides, and saw the gleam
Of undiscovered stars within your eyes,—
  A year,—an hour? I knew not, for the stream
Of love had carried me to Paradise,
  Where all the forms of Time are like a dream.

Remember, when the timid light
  Through the enchanted hall of dawn is gleaming;
Remember, when the pensive night
  Beneath her silver-sprinkled veil walks dreaming;
    When pleasure calls thee and thy heart beats high,
    When tender joys through evening shades draw nigh,
            Hark, from the woodland deeps
            A gentle whisper creeps,
                Remember!

Remember, when the hand of fate
  My life from thine forevermore has parted;
When sorrow, exile, and the weight
  Of lonely years have made me heavy-hearted;
    Think of my loyal love, my last adieu;
    Absence and time are naught, if we are true;
        Long as my heart shall beat,
        To thine it will repeat,
                Remember!

Freely rendered from the French of Alfred de Musset.

I think of thee when golden sunbeams glimmer
          Across the sea;
And when the waves reflect the moon's pale shimmer
          I think of thee.

I see thy form when down the distant highway
          The dust-clouds rise;
In darkest night, above the mountain by-way
          I see thine eyes.

I hear thee when the ocean-tides returning
          Aloud rejoice;
And on the lonely moor in silence yearning
          I hear thy voice.

I dwell with thee; though thou art far removed,
          Yet thou art near.
The sun goes down, the stars shine out,—Beloved
          If thou wert here!

From the German of Goethe, 1898.

I

“EIN FICHTENBAUM”

A fir-tree standeth lonely
On a barren northern height,
Asleep, while winter covers
His rest with robes of white.

In dreams, he sees a palm-tree
In the golden morning-land;
She droops alone and silent
In burning wastes of sand.

II

“DU BIST WIE EINE BLUME”

Fair art thou as a flower
  And innocent and shy:
I look on thee and sorrow;
  I grieve, I know not why.

I long to lay, in blessing,
  My hand upon thy brow,
And pray that God may keep thee
  As fair and pure as now.

1872.

I

THE IVORY CRADLE

The cradle I have made for thee
Is carved of orient ivory,
And curtained round with wavy silk
More white than hawthorn-bloom or milk.

A twig of box, a lilac spray,
Will drive the goblin-horde away;
And charm thy childlike heart to keep
Her happy dream and virgin sleep.

Within that pure and fragrant nest,
I'll rock thy gentle soul to rest,
With tender songs we need not fear
To have a passing angel hear.

Ah, long and long I fain would hold
The snowy curtain's guardian fold
Around thy crystal visions, born
In clearness of the early morn.

The rapid flame will burn its way
Through these white curtains, too, one day;
The ivory cradle will be left
Undone, and broken, and bereft.

DREAMS

Often I dream your big blue eyes,
  Though loth their meaning to confess,
Regard me with a clear surprise
  Of dawning tenderness.

Often I dream you gladly hear
  The words I hardly dare to breathe,—
The words that falter in their fear
  To tell what throbs beneath.

Often I dream your hand in mine
  Falls like a flower at eventide,
And down the path we leave a line
  Of footsteps side by side.

But ah, in all my dreams of bliss,
  In passion's hunger, fever's drouth,
I never dare to dream of this:
  My lips upon your mouth.

And so I dream your big blue eyes,
  That look on me with tenderness,
Grow wide, and deep, and sad, and wise,
  And dim with dear distress.

THE GARLAND OF SLEEP

A wreath of poppy flowers,
  With leaves of lotus blended,
Is carved on Life's facade of hours,
  From night to night suspended.

Along the columned wall,
  From birth's low portal starting,
It flows, with even rise and fall,
  To death's dark door of parting.

How short each measured arc,
  How brief the columns' number!
The wreath begins and ends in dark,
  And leads from sleep to slumber.

The marble garland seems,
  With braided leaf and bloom,
To deck the palace of our dreams
  As if it were a tomb.

TRANQUIL HABIT

Dear tranquil Habit, with her silent hands,
  Doth heal our deepest wounds from day to day
  With cooling, soothing oil, and firmly lay
Around the broken heart her gentle bands.

Her nursing is as calm as Nature's care;
  She doth not weep with us; yet none the less
  Her quiet fingers weave forgetfulness,—
We fall asleep in peace when she is there.

Upon the mirror of the mind her breath
  Is like a cloud, to hide the fading trace
  Of that dear smile, of that remembered face,
Whose presence were the joy and pang of death.

And he who clings to sorrow overmuch,
  Weeping for withered grief, has cause to bless,
  More than all cries of pity and distress,—
Dear tranquil Habit, thy consoling touch!

THE OLD BRIDGE

On the old, old bridge, with its crumbling stones
All covered with lichens red and gray,
Two lovers were talking in sweet low tones:
            And we were they!

As he leaned to breathe in her willing ear
The love that he vowed would never die,
He called her his darling, his dove most dear:
            And he was I!

She covered her face from the pale moonlight
With her trembling hands, but her eyes looked through,
And listened and listened with long delight:
            And she was you!

On the old, old bridge, where the lichens rust,
Two lovers are learning the same old lore;
He tells his love, and she looks her trust:
            But we,—no more!

EYES AND LIPS

1

Our silent eyes alone interpreted
  The new-born feeling in the heart of each:
  In yours I read your sorrow without speech,
Your lonely struggle in their tears unshed.
Behind their dreamy sweetness, as a veil,
  I saw the moving lights of trouble shine;
  And then my eyes were brightened as with wine,
My spirit reeled to see your face grow pale!

Our deepening love, that is not yet allowed
  Another language than the eyes, doth learn
To speak it perfectly: above the crowd
Our looks exchange avowals and desires,—
  Like wave-divided beacon lights that burn,
And talk to one another by their fires.

2

And when you open, eyes of my fond dove,
  Your look will shine with new delight, made sure
By this forerunner of a faithful love.
  Tis just, dear eyes, so pensive and so pure,
That you should bear the sealing kisses true
Of love unhoped that came to me through you.

3

This was my thought; but when beneath the rose
  That hides the lonely bench where lovers rest,
  In friendly dusk I held her on my breast
For one brief moment,—while I saw you close,
Dear, yielding eyes, as if your lids, blue-veined
  And pure, were meekly fain at last to bear
  The proffered homage of my wistful prayer,—
In that high moment, by your grace obtained,

Forgetting your avowals, your alarms,
  Your anguish and your tears, sweet weary eyes,
Forgetting that you gave her to my arms,
I broke my promise; and my first caress,
  Ungrateful, sought her lips in sweet surprise,—
Her lips, which breathed a word of tenderness!

AN EVOCATION

When first upon my brow I felt your kiss,
  A sudden splendour filled me, like the ray
That promptly runs to crown the hills with bliss
  Of purple dawn before the golden day,
And ends the gloom it crosses at one leap.
  My brow was not unworthy your caress;
For some foreboding joy had bade me keep
  From all affront the place your lips would bless.

Yet when your mouth upon my mouth did lay
  The royal touch, no rapture made me thrill,
  But I remained confused, ashamed, and still.
  Beneath your kiss, my queen without a stain,
I felt,—like ghosts who rise at Judgment Day,—
  A throng of ancient kisses vile and vain!

RESIGNATION

1

Well, you will triumph, dear and noble friend!
  The holy love that wounded you so deep
  Will bring you balm, and on your heart asleep
The fragrant dew of healing will descend.
  Your children,—ah, how quickly they will grow
  Between us, like a wall that fronts the sun,
  Lifting a screen with rosy buds o'errun,
To hide the shaded path where I must go.

You'll walk in light; and dreaming less and less
  Of him who droops in gloom beyond the wall,
Your mother-soul will fill with happiness
  When first you hear your grandchild's babbling call,
Beneath the braided bloom of flower and leaf
That We has wrought to veil your vanished grief.

2

Ah, that will be the depth of solitude!
  For my regret, that evermore endures,
  Will know that new-born hope has conquered yours;
And when the evening comes, no gentle brood
Of wondering children, gathered at my side,
Will soothe away the tears I cannot hide.

Freely rendered from the French, 1911.

Come home, my love, come home!
  The twilight is falling,
  The whippoorwill calling,
  The night is very near,
  And the darkness full of fear,
Come home to my arms, come home!

Come home, my love, come home!
  In folly we parted,
  And now, lonely hearted,
  I know you look in vain
  For a love like mine again;
Come home to my arms, come home!

Come home, dear love, come home!
  I've much to forgive you,
  And more yet to give you.
  I'll put a little light
  In the window every night,—
Come home to my arms, come home.

The river of dreams runs quietly down
    From its hidden home in the forest of sleep,
    With a measureless motion calm and deep;
And my boat slips out on the current brown,
    In a tranquil bay where the trees incline
    Far over the waves, and creepers twine
    Far over the boughs, as if to steep
    Their drowsy bloom in the tide that goes
    By a secret way that no man knows,
Under the branches bending,
Under the shadows blending,
    And the body rests, and the passive soul
    Is drifted along to an unseen goal,
While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs murmuring down,
    Through the fairest garden that ever grew;
    And now, as my boat goes drifting through,
A hundred voices arise to drown
    The river's whisper, and charm my ear
    With a sound I have often longed to hear,—
    A magical music, strange and new,
    The wild-rose ballad, the lilac-song,
    The virginal chant of the lilies' throng,
Blue-bells silverly ringing,
Pansies merrily singing,—
    For all the flowers have found their voice;
    And I feel no wonder, but only rejoice,
While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs darkly down
    Into the heart of a desolate land,
    With ruined temples half-buried in sand,
And riven hills, whose black brows frown
    Over the shuddering, lonely wave.
    The air grows dim with the dust of the grave;
    No sign of life on the dreary strand;
    No ray of light on the mountain's crest;
    And a weary wind that cannot rest
Comes down the valley creeping,
Lamenting, wailing, weeping,—
    I strive to cry out, but my fluttering breath
    Is choked with the clinging fog of death,
While the river of dreams runs down.

The river of dreams runs dimly down
    By a secret way that no man knows;
    But the soul lives on while the river flows
Through the gardens bright and the forests brown;
    And I often think that our whole life seems
    To be more than half made up of dreams.
    The changing sights and the passing shows,
    The morning hopes and the midnight fears,
    Are left behind with the vanished years;
Onward, with ceaseless motion,
The life-stream flows to the ocean,
    While we follow the tide, awake or asleep,
    Till we see the dawn on Love's great deep,
    And the shadows melt, and the soul is free,—
    The river of dreams has reached the sea.

1900.

I read within a poet's book
  A word that starred the page:
“Stone walls do not a prison make,
  Nor iron bars a cage!”

Yes, that is true, and something more:
  You'll find, where'er you roam,
That marble floors and gilded walls
  Can never make a home.

But every house where Love abides,
  And Friendship is a guest,
Is surely home, and home-sweet-home:
  For there the heart can rest.

A SLUMBER-SONG FOR THE FISHERMAN'S CHILD

Furl your sail, my little boatie;
    Here's the haven still and deep,
Where the dreaming tides in-streaming
        Up the channel creep.
Now the sunset breeze is dying;
Hear the plover, landward flying,
Softly down the twilight crying;
    Come to anchor, little boatie,
        In the port of Sleep.

Far away, my little boatie,
    Roaring waves are white with foam;
Ships are striving, onward driving,
        Day and night they roam.
Father's at the deep-sea trawling,
In the darkness, rowing, hauling,
While the hungry winds are calling,—
    God protect him, little boatie,
        Bring him safely home!

Furl your sail, my little boatie,
    Fold your wings, my weary dove.
Dews are sprinkling, stars are twinkling
        Drowsily above.
Cease from sailing, cease from rowing;
Rock upon the dream-tide, knowing
Safely o'er your rest are glowing,
    All the night, my little boatie,
        Harbour-lights of love.

1897.

Lord Jesus, Thou hast known
  A mother's love and tender care:
      And Thou wilt hear,
        While for my own
      Mother most dear
        I make this birthday prayer.

Protect her life, I pray,
  Who gave the gift of life to me;
      And may she know,
        From day to day,
      The deepening glow
        Of joy that comes from Thee.

As once upon her breast
  Fearless and well content I lay,
      So let her heart,
        On Thee at rest,
      Feel fear depart
        And trouble fade away.

Ah, hold her by the hand,
  As once her hand held mine;
      And though she may
        Not understand
      Life's winding way,
        Lead her in peace divine.

Only a little shrivelled seed,
It might be flower, or grass, or weed;
Only a box of earth on the edge
Of a narrow, dusty window-ledge;
Only a few scant summer showers;
Only a few clear shining hours;
That was all. Yet God could make
Out of these, for a sick child's sake,
A blossom-wonder, fair and sweet
As ever broke at an angel's feet.

Only a life of barren pain,
Wet with sorrowful tears for rain,
Warmed sometimes by a wandering gleam
Of joy, that seemed but a happy dream;
A life as common and brown and bare
As the box of earth in the window there;
Yet it bore, at last, the precious bloom
Of a perfect soul in that narrow room;
Pure as the snowy leaves that fold
Over the flower's heart of gold.

I count that friendship little worth
  Which has not many things untold,
  Great longings that no words can hold,
And passion-secrets waiting birth.

Along the slender wires of speech
  Some message from the heart is sent;
  But who can tell the whole that's meant?
Our dearest thoughts are out of reach.

I have not seen thee, though mine eyes
  Hold now the image of thy face;
  In vain, through form, I strive to trace
The soul I love: that deeper lies.

A thousand accidents control
  Our meeting here. Clasp hand in hand,
  And swear to meet me in that land
Where friends hold converse soul to soul.

“Do you give thanks for this?—or that?” No, God be thanked
          I am not grateful
In that cold, calculating way, with blessings ranked
  As one, two, three, and four,—that would be hateful.

I only know that every day brings good above
          My poor deserving;
I only feel that in the road of Life true Love
  Is leading me along and never swerving.

Whatever gifts and mercies to my lot may fall,
          I would not measure
As worth a certain price in praise, or great or small;
  But take and use them all with simple pleasure.

For when we gladly eat our daily bread, we bless
          The Hand that feeds us;
And when we tread the road of Life in cheerfulness,
  Our very heart-beats praise the Love that leads us.

With eager heart and will on fire,
I strove to win my great desire.
“Peace shall be mine,” I said; but life
Grew bitter in the barren strife.

My soul was weary, and my pride
Was wounded deep; to Heaven I cried,
“God grant me peace or I must die;”
The dumb stars glittered no reply.

Broken at last, I bowed my head,
Forgetting all myself, and said,
“Whatever comes, His will be done;”
And in that moment peace was won.

Saints are God's flowers, fragrant souls
  That His own hand hath planted,
Not in some far-off heavenly place,
  Or solitude enchanted,
But here and there and everywhere,—
  In lonely field, or crowded town,
  God sees a flower when He looks down.

Some wear the lily's stainless white,
  And some the rose of passion,
And some the violet's heavenly blue,
  But each in its own fashion,
With silent bloom and soft perfume,
  Is praising Him who from above
  Beholds each lifted face of love.

One such I knew,—and had the grace
  To thank my God for knowing:
The beauty of her quiet life
  Was like a rose in blowing,
So fair and sweet, so all-complete
  And all unconscious, as a flower,
  That light and fragrance were her dower.

In sunshine, when the days were glad,
  She had the art of keeping
The clearest rays, to give again
  In days of rain and weeping;
Her blessed heart could still impart
  Some portion of its secret grace,
  And charity shone in her face.

In joy she grew from year to year;
  And sorrow made her sweeter;
And every comfort, still more kind;
  And every loss, completer.
Her children came to love her name,—
  “Christina,”—'twas a lip's caress;
  And when they called, they seemed to bless.

A vow to keep her life alive
  In deeds of pure affection,
So that her love shall find in them
  A daily resurrection;
A constant prayer that they may wear
  Some touch of that supernal light
  With which she blossoms in God's sight.

What shall I give for thee,
  Thou Pearl of greatest price?
For all the treasures I possess
  Would not suffice.

I give my store of gold;
  It is but earthly dross:
But thou wilt make me rich, beyond
  All fear of loss.

Mine honours I resign;
  They are but small at best:
Thou like a royal star wilt shine
  Upon my breast.

My worldly joys I give,
  The flowers with which I played;
Thy beauty, far more heavenly fair,
  Shall never fade.

Dear Lord, is that enough?
  Nay, not a thousandth part.
Well, then, I have but one thing more:
  Take Thou my heart.

I

THE NATIVITY

Could every time-worn heart but see Thee once again,
A happy human child, among the homes of men,
The age of doubt would pass,—the vision of Thy face
Would silently restore the childhood of the race.

II

THE FLIGHT INTO EGYPT

Thou wayfaring Jesus, a pilgrim and stranger,
  Exiled from heaven by love at thy birth,
Exiled again from thy rest in the manger,
  A fugitive child 'mid the perils of earth,—
Cheer with thy fellowship all who are weary,
  Wandering far from the land that they love;
Guide every heart that is homeless and dreary,
  Safe to its home in thy presence above.

  Just to give up, and trust
    All to a Fate unknown,
  Plodding along life's road in the dust,
    Bounded by walls of stone;
Never to have a heart at peace;
Never to see when care will cease;
Just to be still when sorrows fall—
This is the bitterest lesson of all.

  Just to give up, and rest
    All on a Love secure,
  Out of a world that's hard at the best,
    Looking to heaven as sure;
Ever to hope, through cloud and fear,
In darkest night, that the dawn is near;
Just to wait at the Master's feet—
Surely, now, the bitter is sweet.

TO THE MUSIC OF BEETHOVEN'S NINTH SYMPHONY

Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee,
  God of glory, Lord of love;
Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee,
  Praising Thee their sun above.
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness;
  Drive the dark of doubt away;
Giver of immortal gladness,
  Fill us with the light of day!

All Thy works with joy surround Thee,
  Earth and heaven reflect Thy rays,
Stars and angels sing around Thee,
  Centre of unbroken praise:
Field and forest, vale and mountain,
  Blooming meadow, flashing sea,
Chanting bird and flowing fountain,
  Call us to rejoice in Thee.

Thou art giving and forgiving,
  Ever blessing, ever blest,
Well-spring of the joy of living,
  Ocean-depth of happy rest!
Thou our Father, Christ our Brother,—
  All who live in love are Thine:
Teach us how to love each other,
  Lift us to the Joy Divine.

1908.