Sailed to-day:
Faced the grey seas and white winter skies,
None watching from the quay with straining eyes.

Sailed to-day:
Far in his distant home, sad faces bow
And whisper, "Is his ship unanchored now?"

Sailed to-day:
A tearless mother muses on the morn
They bade her cheer, because her boy was born.

Sailed to-day:
And those who loved him best urged on his flight.
The bitter message reached him but last night.

Sailed to-day:
With laugh and boon companions left behind
To mock him in the ghostly midnight wind.

Sailed to-day:
The day of loving patting is so sad,
But we have learned to think such day is glad.

Sailed to-day:
We mourn with torture-tears that drop within,
Whiten our hair, and wear our faces thin.

Sailed to-day:
O cold gray seas! O sullen winter skies!
Will there be ever summer in our eyes?

Sailed to-day:
Well, ships go out, but they come back again —
A day of joy completes long months of pain.

Sailed to-day:
And some ships go with lead and come with gold —
Sad hearts have hopes too daring to be told.

Sailed to-day:
Shall we not always feel this biting cold?
There is no summer when the heart is old.

Sailed to-day!
O God! who to the farthest deep goes down,
Who knows the strangers in the foreign town,

Out of our reach is still in reach of you,
The God who cares for sparrows loves him who
Sailed to-day!

⁠⁠We read the story olden
⁠⁠In a purple light and golden,
As beneath the western window we stood entranced, and gazed,
⁠⁠While the pitying eyes of love
⁠⁠Shone on us from above,
In the sad, sweet face, upon the cross upraised.

⁠⁠My quiv'ring eyelids glisten'd,
⁠⁠As I silent stood, and listen'd,
While your glad voice rose triumphant on the organ's outspread wings.
⁠⁠Ah, my darling! far away
⁠⁠Is that wondrous summer day,
And the voice I love among the angels sings.

⁠⁠Once more I read the story,
⁠⁠In the brilliant western glory,
And hope and peace breathe round me in this calm and sacred place.
⁠⁠I will love thee while I wait,
⁠⁠And within the golden gate,
We shall meet where we indeed shall see His face.

Immortal Verse! Is mine the strain
To last and live? As ages wane
Will one be found to twine the bays,
And praise me then as now you praise?

Will there be one to praise? Ah, no!
My laurel leaf may never grow;
My bust is in the quarry yet, —
Oblivion weaves my coronet.

Immortal for a month - a week!
The garlands wither as I speak;
The song will die, the harp's unstrung, —
But, singing, have I vainly sung?

You deign'd to lend an ear the while
I trill'd my lay. I won your smile.
Now, let it die, or let it live, —
My verse was all I had to give.

The linnet flies on wistful wings,
And finds a bower, and lights and sings;
Enough if my poor verse endures
To light and live — to die in yours.

By the bursting of the leaves,
By the lengthening of the eves, —
⁠Spring is coming.
By the flowers that scent the air,
By the skies more blue and fair,
By the singing everywhere, —
⁠Spring is coming.

All the woods and fields rejoice, —
⁠Spring is coming.
Only here and there a voice —
Here of buds the worm has worn,
Here of birds whose nest is torn;
There of those whose life is pent
Far from pleasant sight and scent —
Wails, as if their life's distress
Won a new, wild bitterness; —
⁠Spring is coming.