A pause, a listen, a catch in the breath,
As wonderland bursts on the view—
So bright and so fair, so marvelously rare.
Oh, nought but is good, and is true.
A shadow, a cloud, a look as of death,
A sigh for the old, and the new;
A clutch at the blossoms fading beneath,
Which still at the feet, the pathway bestrew,
Like thorns in the weary one's wreath.
A soil on the book, a soil on the page
The hands less firmly hold;
A look as of one grown suddenly sage,
A sorrow's shaft the story told,
And old, but not with age.
A murmur of pain, for the hero troop,
And the ship, Hope, passing by,
An upward glance, for the angel group,
Through the fastly darkening sky;
Eventide coming on apace,
Clouds hurrying, scurrying by;
A look of woe on the ghastly face,
A pitiful, anguished, desolate cry,
As a hand looms forth to trace
The lines of a life that knew no sin,
Written in words of gold
On tablets so clear that the light within
Streams over the letters bold.
As wonderland bursts on the view—
So bright and so fair, so marvelously rare.
Oh, nought but is good, and is true.
A shadow, a cloud, a look as of death,
A sigh for the old, and the new;
A clutch at the blossoms fading beneath,
Which still at the feet, the pathway bestrew,
Like thorns in the weary one's wreath.
A soil on the book, a soil on the page
The hands less firmly hold;
A look as of one grown suddenly sage,
A sorrow's shaft the story told,
And old, but not with age.
A murmur of pain, for the hero troop,
And the ship, Hope, passing by,
An upward glance, for the angel group,
Through the fastly darkening sky;
Eventide coming on apace,
Clouds hurrying, scurrying by;
A look of woe on the ghastly face,
A pitiful, anguished, desolate cry,
As a hand looms forth to trace
The lines of a life that knew no sin,
Written in words of gold
On tablets so clear that the light within
Streams over the letters bold.
—60—
