For lo, the way is dark; Through mist and cloud I grope, Save for that fitful spark, The little flame of hope. Lead gently, Lord, and slow, For fear that I may fall; I know not where to go Unless I hear thy call. My fainting soul doth yearn For thy green hills afar; So let thy mercy burn-- My greater, guiding star! JUST WHISTLE A BIT Just whistle a bit, if the day be dark, And the sky be overcast: If mute be the voice of the piping lark, Why, pipe your own small blast. And it's wonderful how o'er the gray sky-track The truant warbler comes stealing back. But why need he come? for your soul's at rest, And the song in the heart,--ah, that is best. Just whistle a bit, if the night be drear And the stars refuse to shine: And a gleam that mocks the starlight clear Within you glows benign. Till the dearth of light in the glooming skies Is lost to the sight of your soul-lit eyes. What matters the absence of moon or star? The light within is the best by far. Just whistle a bit, if there 's work to do, With the mind or in the soil. And your note will turn out a talisman true To exorcise grim Toil. It will lighten your burden and make you feel That there 's nothing like work as a sauce for a meal. And with song in your heart and the meal in--its place, There 'll be joy in your bosom and light in your face. Just whistle a bit, if your heart be sore; 'Tis a wonderful balm for pain. Just pipe some old melody o'er and o'er Till it soothes like summer rain. And perhaps 't would be best in a later day, When Death comes stalking down the way, To knock at your bosom and see if you 're fit, Then, as you wait calmly, just whistle a bit. THE BARRIER The Midnight wooed the Morning-Star, And prayed her: "Love come nearer; Your swinging coldly there afar To me but makes you dearer!" The Morning-Star was pale with dole As said she, low replying: "Oh, lover mine, soul of my soul, For you I too am sighing. "But One ordained when we were born, In spite of Love's insistence, That Night might only view the Morn Adoring at a distance." But as she spoke the jealous Sun Across the heavens panted. "Oh, whining fools," he cried, "have done; Your wishes shall be granted!" He hurled his flaming lances far; The twain stood unaffrighted-- And Midnight and the Morning-Star Lay down in death united! DREAMS Dream on, for dreams are sweet: Do not awaken! Dream on, and at thy feet Pomegranates shall be shaken. Who likeneth the youth Of life to morning? 'Tis like the night in truth, Rose-coloured dreams adorning. The wind is soft above, The shadows umber. (There is a dream called Love.) Take thou the fullest slumber! In Lethe's soothing stream, Thy thirst thou slakest. Sleep, sleep; 't is sweet to dream. Oh, weep when thou awakest!