II.
The flower of purest whiteness,
That blooms in a lonely dell,
Wastes not its heavenly brightness,
Though none of its beauty may tell,
A spirit its life has tended,
And guarded its home with love,
And when its time is ended
Shall bear it to bloom above.
The songs that the skylark singeth
When no one is nigh to hear
Are not lost as she heavenwards wingeth,
Though heard by no mortal ear.
The Spirit of Music has stayed them
As they fled on the wings of the breeze,
And among her best treasures has laid them
With stream-songs and sighs of the trees.
E'en so the love that unfailing
Yet finds no response on earth,
Shall not die all unavailing
Though no one may learn its worth.
The angels themselves shall claim it
When its trial-time here is past,
And Heaven, where nought shall shame it,
Shall answer its hope at last.
III.
Brightest dreams may be forgotten
And fade from out the heart.
Love by earthly thoughts engendered
Soon faints when lovers part.
Dearest hopes may be despaired of,
And beauty lose her art:
These are earthborn, and must fade
In Lethe with the bliss they made.
Hopes that are in Heaven sealed
There shall perish never,
Love that springs from souls' divineness
Floweth on forever.
Purer spirits knit by loving
Nought on earth shall sever.
Till together as they roam
They reach their everlasting home.
IV.
Beings drawn to one another
Join by Nature's law at last.
Lovers earnest to each other
Meet before all hope is past.
Somehow in time fitting
Before their souls are flitting,
Or elsewhere—who can tell?
Soon after the passing-bell.
Nought is lost which has existence.
Even a careless thought of wrong;
Though its work be in the distance
Fruit will come, for laws are strong;
Glorious thoughts seem wasted.
Longed-for joys untasted. —
'Tis not so. Time goes on:
Eternity's not done.
'Tis not that which seems most cheerful
To our feebly groping minds:
Often 'tis a lot more tearful
Which the skein of fate unwinds:
Often 'tis a kindness
We see not through our blindness.
So are we wroth at pain
And notice not our gain.
Love is far too great a wonder.
Is it pain or is it joy?
Lovers moan when they're asunder;
Are their sweets without alloy?
Yet 'twill bloom in season:
Want of trust is treason:
Somehow in time fitting
Before our souls are flitting.
Or after—who can tell
What is beyond that passing-bell?
V.
When May is blooming fair, love,
And sweet birds all are singing;
When May is blooming fair, love,
And buds are all outspringing,
We'll seek some quiet bank of thyme
Where lights and shadows play,
And think upon our love's first prime
Till falling of the day.
When summer suns are bright, dear.
And fields with gold are glowing;
When summer suns are bright, dear,
And gay flowers are a-blowing.
We'll rest beside some merry stream
In a deep bowery wood.
And muse upon the tender dream
That fills our souls with good.
When silent winter sleepeth.
And hoar-frost sparkles brightly;
When the year dying weepeth.
And snows lie gleaming whitely.
We'll say, "'Tis time to pass away.
For death in love is sweet;
It is but birth to brighter day
Which we should gladly greet —
To find beyond that opening door
Our love unchanged forevermore."
VI.
The light of evening fadeth fast,
The sun's bright ray no longer glows;
The daily toil of earth is past,
And weary hearts may seek repose:
May no sound mar their sleep
Who only thus may cease to weep.
E'en so with kindly hand may death.
When age's twilight falleth round us.
Our eyelids close, and still our breath.
And with the veil of sleep surround us,
Until the dawn shall come
And wake us in a painless home.
