My Psalm
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- I mourn no more my vanished years
- Beneath a tender rain,
- An April rain of smiles and tears,
- My heart is young again.
- The west-winds blow, and, singing low,
- I hear the glad streams run;
- The windows of my soul I throw
- Wide open to the sun.
- No longer forward nor behind
- I look in hope or fear;
- But, grateful, take the good I find,
- The best of now and here.
- I plough no more a desert land,
- To harvest weed and tare;
- The manna dropping from God's hand
- Rebukes my painful care.
- I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
- Aside the toiling oar;
- The angel sought so far away
- I welcome at my door.
- The airs of spring may never play
- Among the ripening corn,
- Nor freshness of the flowers of May
- Blow through the autumn morn.
- Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
- Through fringed lids to heaven,
- And the pale aster in the brook
- Shall see its image given;--
- The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
- The south-wind softly sigh,
- And sweet, calm days in golden haze
- Melt down the amber sky.
- Not less shall manly deed and word
- Rebuke an age of wrong;
- The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
- Make not the blade less strong.
- But smiting hands shall learn to heal,--
- To build as to destroy;
- Nor less my heart for others feel
- That I the more enjoy.
- All as God wills, who wisely heeds
- To give or to withhold,
- And knoweth more of all my needs
- Than all my prayers have told.
- Enough that blessings undeserved
- Have marked my erring track;
- That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,
- His chastening turned me back;
- That more and more a Providence
- Of love is understood,
- Making the springs of time and sense
- Sweet with eternal good;--
- That death seems but a covered way
- Which opens into light,
- Wherein no blinded child can stray
- Beyond the Father's sight;
- That care and trial seem at last,
- Through Memory's sunset air,
- Like mountain-ranges overpast,
- In purple distance fair;
- That all the jarring notes of life
- Seem blending in a psalm,
- And all the angles of its strife
- Slow rounding into calm.
- And so the shadows fall apart,
- And so the west-winds play;
- And all the windows of my heart
- I open to the day.
- 1859.
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