This is the sabbath season of the year,
⁠When summer silence falleth on the earth, —
⁠When truce hath come to husbandry and mirth,
To mower's scythe and wanton wood-notes clear.

The world is still, as if with holy fear,
⁠And from its heart, through lily-bell and rose,
⁠A stream of incense rises up, and flows
God wards with soft repinings for his ear.

And I would with the sabbath world take rest,
⁠Could breathe my life out with the summer's sigh;
Could lay it at God's feet if, dispossest,
⁠My soul might feed new life as glad as high;
But of no dweller on this earth unblest, —
⁠This fair, lost world, where mortals love and die!

True twin in heart of that pure soul,
⁠True sharer in that saintly life,
⁠Thy suffering now is past, and strife
Finds issue at the victor's goal.

Thine now the joy, the love, the hope
⁠Of those who see with vision clear
⁠The purpose working far and near,
The thousand paths that upward slope.

Through mists and darkness, weal and woe,
⁠To where nought endeth incomplete,
⁠Where all the loved and lost ones meet,
And love is more than we can know.

And, there the sister-spirits rest,
⁠And tell of sorrows that have taught
⁠The lesson, all so dearly bought,
In blessing others, to be blest, —

With words of hope, and peerless skill
⁠To raise weak souls from their despair,
⁠To breathe awhile serener air
Above the clouds of passing ill.
 
And he is there who taught our youth,
⁠Husband and brother, child of light,
⁠Whose faith victorious ends in sight,
Knowing, not guessing, now the truth.

And he, the prophet, priest, and sage,
⁠Whose voice still rings in listening ears,
⁠Who bade us cast away our fears,
Nor heed, though wild storms round us rage, —

He, too, is there; and can we dream
⁠Their joy is other now than when
⁠They dwelt among the sons of men,
As walking in the eternal gleam?

Are there no souls behind the veil
⁠That need the help of guiding hand;
⁠Weak hearts that cannot understand
Why earth's poor dreams of heaven must fail?

Are there no prison-doors to ope,
⁠No lambs to gather in the fold,
⁠No treasure-house of new and old,
To fill desire and answer hope?

We know not; but if life be there
⁠The outcome and the crown of this,
⁠What else can make their perfect bliss
Than in the Master's work to share?

Resting, but not in slumbrous ease,
⁠Working, but not in wild unrest,
⁠Still ever blessing, ever blest,
They see us, as the Father sees.

She sang until she stood, a pure white soul,
⁠Within the open gates of Paradise;
⁠And he, the listener, saw through her clear eyes
Life's loveliness. The warm light downward stole
Through golden hair that made an aureole
⁠For her uplifted face, which lilywise
⁠Rose o'er a leaf-hued gown. Her song did rise
Accordant with a certain ancient scroll,
Whence she had learned it once, with vague regret
⁠For the musician, dead ere she was born.
⁠The harmony he dreamed had been so sweet,
That as he stood in heaven he heard it yet, —
⁠Like God, who in creation's primal morn
⁠Had made earth's melody therewith complete.