Still, oft as the future lowers,
Like a tempest overhead,
They look for the light of a beacon
In the refuge of the dead.
And they wonder what days shall be numbered,
Or how many years be sped,
Ere sorrow shall seek for a resting
In Nature's mouldy bed.
But that resting seems ever distant,
Though sometimes, sudden and fast,
A leaf on the banks is stranded,
And the River of Life runs past.
For on, and forever onward,
The River of Life still runs,
Still strews its banks with its dead leaves,
And wearies its living ones.
Yet though upon life's journey,
Our hearts will needs despond,
When the Past gleams through a desert,
And we know not what's beyond.
Far, far in the infinite Future,
Immutable, dim, and vast,
Looms the haze of that mighty Ocean,
Where the River will merge at last.
