Day is for mortal care;
Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth;
Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer—
But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth.
The banquet hath its hour,
Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine;
There comes a day of grief’s overwhelming power,
A time for softer tears—but all are thine.
Youth and the opening rose
May look like things too glorious for decay,