And if, in thy life on earth, In the chamber, or by the hearth, Mid the crowded city's tide, Or high on the lone hill-side, Thou canst cause a thought of peace, Or an aching thought to cease, Or a gleam of joy to burst On a soul in gladness nurst; Spare not thy hand, my child; Though the gladdened should never know The well-spring amid the wild Whence the waters of blessing flow. Find thy reward in the thing Which thou hast been blest to do; Let the joy of others cause joy to spring Up in thy bosom too. And if the love of a grateful heart As a rich reward be given, Lift thou the love of a grateful heart To the God of Love in Heaven. HOPE DEFERRED. Summer is come again. The sun is bright, And the soft wind is breathing. We will joy; And seeing in each other's eyes the light Of the same joy, smile hopeful. Our employ Shall, like the birds', be airy castles, things Built by gay hopes, and fond imaginings, Peopling the land within us. We will tell Of the green hills, and of the silent sea, And of all summer things that calmly dwell, A waiting Paradise for you and me. And if our thoughts should wander upon sorrow, Yet hope will wait upon the far-off morrow. Look on those leaves. It was not Summer's mouth That breathed that hue upon them. And look there-- On that thin tree. See, through its branches bare, How low the sun is in the mid-day South! This day is but a gleam of gladness, flown Back from the past to tell us what is gone. For the dead leaves are falling; and our heart, Which, with the world, is ever changing so, Gives back, in echoes sad and low, The rustling sigh wherewith dead leaves depart: A sound, not murmuring, but faint and wild; A sorrow for the Past that hath no child,-- No sweet-voiced child with the bright name of Hope. We are like you, poor leaves! but have more scope For sorrow; for our summers pass away With a slow, year-long, overshadowing decay. Yea, Spring's first blossom disappears, Slain by the shadow of the coming years. Come round me, my beloved. We will hold All of us compassed thus: a winter day Is drawing nigh us. We are growing old; And, if we be not as a ring enchanted, About each other's heart, to keep us gay, The young, who claim that joy which haunted Our visions once, will push us far away Into the desolate regions, dim and grey, Where the sea hath no moaning, and the cloud No rain of tears, but apathy doth shroud All being and all time. But, if we keep Together thus, the tide of youth will sweep Round us with thousand joyous waves, As round some palmy island of the deep; And our youth hover round us like the breath Of one that sleeps, and sleepeth not to death.