The acres of the golden rod
Are glorious on the hills.
Tho storm and loss approach, the year’s
High heart upleaps and thrills.
Dearest, the cheer, the brave delight,
Are given to shame regret,
That when the long frost falls, our hearts
Be glad, and not forget!
A SONG OF GROWTH
In the heart of a man
Is a thought upfurled,
Reached its full span
It shakes the world,
And to one high thought
Is a whole race wrought.
Not with vain noise
The great work grows,
Nor with foolish voice,
But in repose,—
Not in the rush
But in the hush.
From the cogent lash
Of the cloud-herd wind
The low clouds dash,
Blown headlong, blind;
But beyond, the great blue
Looks moveless through.
O’er the loud world sweep
The scourge and the rod;
But in deep beyond deep
Is the stillness of God;—
At the Fountains of Life
No cry, no strife.
TO G. B. R.
How merry sings the aftermath,
With crickets fifing in the dew!
The home-sweet sounds, the scene, the hour,
I consecrate to you.
All this you knew and loved with me;
All this in our delight had part;
And now—though us earth sees no more
As comrades, heart to heart—
This kindly strength of open fields,
This faith of eve, this calm of air,
They lift my spirit close to you
In memory and prayer.