I see a lark in the far summer sky,
⁠My darling seated at her harp I see,
Playing the while our little children sing:
⁠The world is full of music — not for me!

I dreamed last night of some dim abbey choir:
⁠The lights were burning where the singers stood
Chanting my anthem. I crouched in the dark,
⁠Weeping for joy to hear they called it good!

O music of my sleep, that mocks my soul
⁠With cruel joys that are fulfilled no more
Than his who dreams of light and love at home.
⁠And wakes to find himself on Arctic shore!

It haunts me always through my silent days,
⁠With life before me like a closed gate.
If God had only bidden me to die, —
⁠Or anything but this hard work — to wait!

To wait and work, and know my work but as
⁠Some poor fond mother from her infant reft,
Shuts the sweet memory safe from change and time.
⁠And dreams to find her boy the babe she left!

And yet there is a thought will sometimes creep —
⁠It even mingled in my dream last night —
I'd rather make my music in the dark.
⁠Than only stand and sing it in the light!

Maybe the dream is nearer truth than sound.
⁠And could I hear my tune, mine eyes might miss
Some of the sweetness soaring in my soul:
⁠Better go wanting that, and having this!

And there are songs in heaven. God forgive
⁠A poor deaf man for wondering what they are.
Perchance it is their echo that I catch,
⁠And I shall hear those same songs sweeter far!

The year is dying, soberly the trees
Are mellowing — with a dull sad face
They lean against the sadness of the sky:
The glory of the summer has gone by.
Gone is the smile of gladness from the place.

O sad to see the sun come later up.
And sad to see him pass betimes away,
And sad the pallid glints he throws across
The leaf-strewn garden; sad the sense of loss,
The all-pervading fragrance of decay.

Yet at the open window, as I sit
With closed eyes, and hear the gentle rain
Fall on the damp green earth like lovers' sighs,
And feel the breath of earth uprise
From far and near, from hillock and from plain,

The same soft drip of lightly falling showers.
Upon the moss-greens growing everywhere,
The same strange stilly warmness in the lift.
The cawing of the rooks, the gentle drift
Of odorous distillings in the air,

Daffodils growing on the field's green breast.
Buds all a-blow, and the enchanted breath
Of violets peeping in the damp hedgerow,
Kindled to being — O mystery, that so
Death looks like life, and life so like to death!

If all our lives were one broad glare
⁠Of sunlight, clear, unclouded;
If all our path were smooth and fair,
⁠By no soft gloom enshrouded;
If all life's flowers were fully blown
⁠Without the sweet unfolding,
And happiness were rudely thrown
⁠On hands too weak for holding —
⁠⁠Should we not miss the twilight hours,
⁠⁠⁠The gentle haze and sadness?
⁠⁠Should we not long for storms and showers,
⁠⁠⁠To break the constant gladness?

If none were sick and none were sad,
⁠What service could we render?
I think if we were always glad.
⁠We scarcely could be tender
Did our beloved never need
⁠Our patient ministration,
Earth would grow cold, and miss indeed
⁠Its sweetest consolation;
⁠⁠If sorrow never claimed our heart,
⁠⁠⁠And every wish were granted,
⁠⁠Patience would die, and hope depart —
⁠⁠⁠Life would be disenchanted.

And yet in heaven is no more night,
⁠In heaven is no more sorrow!
Such unimagined new delight
⁠Fresh grace from pain will borrow —
As the poor seed that underground
⁠Seeks its true life above it.
Not knowing what will there be found
⁠When sunbeams kiss and love it.
⁠⁠So we in darkness upward grow.
⁠⁠⁠And look and long for heaven,
⁠⁠But cannot picture it below,
⁠⁠⁠Till more of light be given.