Deep and still, that gliding stream Beautiful to thee must seem, As the river of a dream.
Then why pause with indecision, When bright angels in thy vision Beckon thee to fields Elysian?
Seest thou shadows sailing by, As the dove, with startled eye, Sees the falcon's shadow fly?
Hearest thou voices on the shore, That our ears perceive no more, Deafened by the cataract's roar?
O, thou child of many prayers! Life hath quicksands,—Life hath snares Care and age come unawares!
Like the swell of some sweet tune, Morning rises into noon, May glides onward into June.
Childhood is the bough, where slumbered Birds and blossoms many-numbered;— Age, that bough with snows encumbered.
Gather, then, each flower that grows, When the young heart overflows, To embalm that tent of snows.
Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand.
Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth!