Nothing resting in its own completeness Can have worth or beauty: but alone Because it leads and tends to farther sweetness, Fuller, higher, deeper than its own. Spring's real glory dwells not in the meaning, Gracious though it be, of her blue hours; But is hidden in her tender leaning To the Summer's richer wealth of flowers. Dawn is fair, because the mists fade slowly Into Day, which floods the world with light; Twilight's mystery is so sweet and holy Just because it ends in starry Night. Childhood's smiles unconscious graces borrow From Strife, that in a far-off future lies; And angel glances (veiled now by Life's sorrow) Draw our hearts to some beloved eyes. Life is only bright when it proceedeth Towards a truer, deeper Life above; Human Love is sweetest when it leadeth To a more divine and perfect Love. Learn the mystery of Progression duly: Do not call each glorious change, Decay; But know we only hold our treasures truly, When it seems as if they passed away. Nor dare to blame God's gifts for incompleteness; In that want their beauty lies: they roll Towards some infinite depth of love and sweetness, Bearing onward man's reluctant soul. VERSE: A LEGEND OF BREGENZ Girt round with rugged mountains The fair Lake Constance lies; In her blue heart reflected Shine back the starry skies; And, watching each white cloudlet Float silently and slow, You think a piece of Heaven Lies on our earth below! Midnight is there: and Silence, Enthroned in Heaven, looks down Upon her own calm mirror, Upon a sleeping town: For Bregenz, that quaint city Upon the Tyrol shore, Has stood above Lake Constance, A thousand years and more. Her battlements and towers, From off their rocky steep, Have cast their trembling shadow For ages on the deep: Mountain, and lake, and valley, A sacred legend know, Of how the town was saved, one night, Three hundred years ago. Far from her home and kindred, A Tyrol maid had fled, To serve in the Swiss valleys, And toil for daily bread; And every year that fleeted So silently and fast, Seemed to bear farther from her The memory of the Past. She served kind, gentle masters, Nor asked for rest or change; Her friends seemed no more new ones, Their speech seemed no more strange; And when she led her cattle To pasture every day, She ceased to look and wonder On which side Bregenz lay. She spoke no more of Bregenz, With longing and with tears: Her Tyrol home seemed faded In a deep mist of years; She heeded not the rumours Of Austrian war and strife; Each day she rose contented, To the calm toils of life. Yet, when her master's children Would clustering round her stand, She sang them ancient ballads Of her own native land; And when at morn and evening She knelt before God's throne, The accents of her childhood Rose to her lips alone.