The summer sun was burning still,
Though autumn days were drawing nigh;
The song-birds sung in fading bowers,
And sad-voiced winds went sobbing by.
But nature’s song is dear to me,
It searches out my every care;
Its subtle voice brings peacefulness,
As soothing as an angel’s prayer.
And thus I move along the way
That leads me toward the setting sun;
I see the lengthening shadows grow,
And leaves turn crimson one by one.
The harvest days are over now,
The meadow-lands are safely mown,
And calmness broods where plenteousness
Enriches many a happy home.
But from the fields all reaped and brown
There comes a weird and haunting strain
Where late was heard the reaper’s song,
Strange phantom voices plead in vain.
They seem to plead for some lost cause;
An invisible, unknown power
Speaks through the shorn, deserted fields,
And faded leaf and blighted flower.
And in the calm autumnal days
A solemn gladness comes to me,
And though I go with empty hands
Resignation hath set me free.
The mournful winds sob sadly now,
The lengthening shadows grow apace,
The skies in sombre hues are dressed,
And dead leaves flutter in my face.
And still I press along the way—
’Tis growing rough for tired feet—
I hear the muttering of the storm,
And watch the vivid lightning’s leap.
Its blinding flashes rend the skies;
The rain a torrent on me pours;
The mighty oak is rent in twain,
And the dread tempest round me roars.
And thus I march along the road,
Though blinded oft by sleet and rain;
I shiver in the chilling winds,
And moan with weariness and pain.
And when the shadows gloom the way,
The darkness of the lonesome night
Brings out the stars in cold array,
And frost gleams in the ghastly light.
Then I upraise a pleading prayer,
And sink exhausted to the ground;
With but a crust my ev’ning meal,
I fall into a rest profound.
And dreams of old come unto me,
I climb again youth’s shining hills,
And view the woodlands and the fields,
And song of birds my glad heart thrills.
I hear again my father’s voice,
And brother Jack is by my side,
And sister Nell and Lawrence Dare,
And Minnie Lee, the village pride;
And all the friends that blest my youth
On me their loving glances beam,
And life once more is blithe and gay
In the old cottage by the stream.
My mother’s hand is on my brow;
To me a perfect rest is given;
I hear the songs of heavenly choirs,
I dream, my soul, I dream of heaven.
I hear what mortals may not tell,
A sacred greeting meets me there,
And ecstasy my being thrills,
Heaven opes to me so wondrous fair.
The dawn’s cold light falls on my face,
I wake benumbed by frost and dew,
I pray for strength to bear me up—
Again my journey I pursue.
My thoughts flow backward as I go,
And yearning still for other days,
The shadows colder, denser grow,
The skies now wear a shroud of haze.