The day is at its golden height,
No shadow falls on sea or land;
And yet to thee I say Good night,
As we stand here hand clasped in hand,
Good night—Good night.
The laughing waves are summer blue,
The bees hum in the sun’s warm light;
But frosts of winter chill me through,
I shiver as I say Good night.
Good night—Good night.
How often at the close of day
With smiling lips we’ve said those words:
And listened as we turned away
To hear them echoed by the birds,
Good night—Good night.
We did not dream then of this hour,
This sad, sad hour for you and me;
We did not dream there was a power
Could force us for eternity
To say Good night.
Good night—nay, turn your eyes away;
I cannot bear their tender light.
Now evermore to golden day,
To golden hope, a last Good night,
Good night—Good night.
NO PLACE
When days grow long, and brain and hands grow weary,
And hot the city street,
Forth to the haunts, by cooling winds made cheery
We fly with willing feet.
We leave our cares and labours all behind us,
The city’s noise and din,
And, hid securely where they cannot find us,
We drink the sunshine in.
But when the days grow long with bitter sorrow,
And hearts grow sick with woe,
Where are the haunts that we may seek to-morrow?
Where can we hide or go?
Holds earth no nook, where hearts with sorrow breaking,
May find a summer’s rest?
A season’s respite from the weary aching
That gnaws within the breast?