For I knew some heart would miss him,
Would ache at his "going away!"
And the earth would seem all cheerless,
For many and many a day.
No matter how light my spirit,
No matter how glad my heart,
If I hear these two words uttered,
The tear drops always start.
They are so sad and solemn,
So full of a lonely sound:
Like dead leaves rustling downward,
And dropping upon the ground.
Oh, I pity the naked branches,
When the skies are dull and gray,
And the last leaf whispers softly,
"Good bye, I am going away."
In the dreary, dripping Autumn,
The wings of the flying birds,
As they soar away to the south land,
Seem always to say these words.
Where ever they may be uttered,
They fall with a sob, and sigh;
And heartaches follow the sentence,
"I am going away, Good bye."
Oh God, in Thy blessed kingdom
No lips shall ever say,
No ears shall ever hearken
To the words "I am going away."
For no soul ever wearies
Of the dear, bright, angel land,
And no saint ever wanders
From the sunny, golden land.
[BE NOT WEARY.]
Sometimes, when I am toil-worn and aweary,
All tired out, with working long, and well,
And earth is dark, and skies above are dreary,
And heart and soul are all too sick to tell,
These words have come to me, like angel fingers,
Pressing the spirit eyelids down in sleep.
"Oh, let us not be weary in well doing,
For in due season, we shall surely reap."
Oh, blessed promise! when I seem to hear it,
Whispered by angel voices on the air,
It breathes new life, and courage to my spirit,
And gives me strength to suffer and forbear.
And I can wait most patiently for harvest,
And cast my seeds, nor ever faint, nor weep,
If I know surely, that my work availeth,
And in God's season, I at last shall reap.
When mind and body were borne down completely
And I have thought my efforts were all vain,
These words have come to me, so softly, sweetly,
And whispered hope, and urged me on again.
And though my labor seems all unavailing,
And all my strivings fruitless, yet the Lord
Doth treasure up each little seed I scatter,
And sometime, _sometime_, I shall reap reward.
[GROWING OLD.]
Little by little the year grows old,
The red leaves drop from the maple boughs;
The sun grows dim, and the winds blow cold,
Down from the distant arctic seas.