Our single lives are circled round
By an embracing sea;
Are joined to all that has been, bound
To all that is to be;
The past and future meet and cross,
And in life's ocean is no loss.
We know there is no loss—and yet—
Dismayed, perplexed,—poor dupes of time—
We see youth stricken ere its prime,
And in our grief forget!
But pitying Nature takes our part:
Slowly she heals the breaking heart,
And Sorrow's self procures us gain;
For in her steps ascending higher,
We come, at last, where waits nor pain
Nor unfulfilled desire,—
Finding the path lit from above
That leads from love—to Love!
Nothing is premature with God:
His are the harvest-time and sowing,
The seedling nestled in the sod,
The flower in beauty blowing,
The languid ebb, the eager flow,
The pulse of spring, the brooding snow.