10 Songs , opus 96

There is a word of grief the sounding token.
There is a word bejewelled with bright tears.
The saddest word fond lips have ever spoken,
a little word that breaks the chain of years.
Its utterance must ever bring emotion,
the memories it crystals cannot die.
'Tis known in every land, in every ocean,
'tis called Goodbye.

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ;
It rains and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldr'ng wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
  And the day is [dark]1 and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It  rains and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mould'ring Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
  And the days are [dark]1 and dreary.

Be still, sad heart!  and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
  Some days must be dark and dreary.

The sails we see on the ocean
are white as white can be,
but never one in the harbour
as white as the sails at sea.

And the clouds that crown the mountain
with purple and gold delight
turn to cold gray mist and vapor
before we can reach its height.

Stately fair the vessel
that comes not near the beach,
Lofty and grand the mountain,
whose height we may never reach.

Oh distance, thou dear enchantress,
still hold in thy magic veil
the glory of far-off mountains,
the gleam of the far-off sail.

Sleep sweet within this quiet room,
Keep closed thy yearnful eyes,
And let no mournful yesterday
Disturb thee ere thou rise.

Nor let tomorrow scare thy rest
With dreams of coming ill:
Thy Maker is thy changeless friend,
His love surrounds thee still.

Forget thyself and all the world,
Put out each feverish light:
The stars are watching overhead --
Sleep sweet! Good night! Good night!

An old farmhouse with meadows wide,  
And sweet with clover on either side;  
A bright-eyed boy who looks from out  
The door, with woodbine wreathed about,  
And wishes this one thought all the day:  
"Oh, if I could but fly away  
From this dull spot, the world to see,  
How happy, how happy, I would be."  

Amid the city's constant din  
A man who round the world has been;  
Who 'mid the tumult and the throng  
Is thinking, thinking all day long:  
"Oh, could I only tread once more  
The field path to the farmhouse door,  
The old green meadows could I see,  
How happy, how happy I would be."

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
      But we build the ladder by which we rise
      From the lowly earth, to the vaulted sky,
And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true:
      That a noble deed is a step toward God,
      Lifting the soul from the common clod
To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under feet;
      By what we have mastered of good and gain;
      By the pride deposed and the passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

 ... 

Wings for the angels, but feet for men!
      We may borrow the wings to find the way —
      We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray;
But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

 ... 

Heaven is not reached at a single bound;
      But we build the ladder by which we rise
      From the lowly earth, to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit, round by round.

A town lies in the valley
a pale day fades and dies
and it will not be long before
neither moon nor starlight
night only fills the skies.

From all the mountain ridges
creeps mist and swathes the town
No farm no house no wet red roof
can pierce the thickly worry woof
scarce even spires and bridges

But as the wanderer shudders
deep down a streak of light rejoices his heart
and through the smoke and haze
children’s voices begin 
a gentle hymn of praise

Pain is a blacksmith,
Hard is his hammer;
With flying flames
His hearth is hot;
A straining storm
Of forces ferocious
Blows his bellows.
He hammers hearts
And tinkers them,
With blows tremendous,
Till hard they hold. —

Well, well forges Pain. —

No storm destroys,
No frost consumes,
No rust corrodes,
What pain has forged.

Up, boy! arise, and saddle quick,
And mount your swiftest steed,
And to King Duncan's castle ride
O'er bush and brake with speed.
 
There slip into the stable soft,
Till one shall see you hide,
Then ask him: Which of the Duncan's girls
Is she that is a bride?
 
And if he say, The dark-haired one,
Then give your mare the spur;
But if he say, The fair-haired one,
You need not hurry her.
 
You only need, if that's the case,
Buy me a hempen cord,
Ride slowly back and give it me,
But never speak a word.

The final leaf has fallen. Now along the street
the trees are darkly pencilled with snow about their feet,
sternly at attention through the cold they rise,
tall unbending sentinels against the winter skies.
Often I remember how they guarded me,
as I walked in summer beneath their canopy.
Now the empty branches cannot shield from snow;
still they guard a promise for those who walk below.
All the bitter season curl within their veins
little leaves for opening down the April lanes.