Yea, sing to him, call him through
Heartache in vain.
But the gladdest day wakened
To glory, must wane;
And the noonday he longed for
To fierce light will burn,
And the battles he wages
Grow bitter and stern;
And the surge of life sink
To the moan of a bar;
And the hopes of the morning
Grow hollow and far;
And the road that he follows
Less luring and true,
Till he longs for a whiff
Of the morning he knew.
For he hears thy far singing,
That lures not in vain,
Till he comes to thy beauty
Of dawning again.
But the roads of returning
Are never the same
As the sweet dewy meadows
Of morning we came.
But the song of alluring
Is ever as true,
To lead the heart back
To the beauty it knew;
And vain the mad magic
Where life’s glories burn,
For the heart of the yearner
Who longs to return:
For he hears that voice calling,
Voiced never in vain,
To world-heart aweary
For all dreamings fain;
And he hears the low grasses,
The green tents of sod,
From roof-trees of slumber,
As voices of God;