So happy, happy did they look, as one by one they went, That we, who missed them sorely, were fain to be content; And I, who sit the last of all, left far behind, alone, Cannot be sorry for their sakes, but only for my own. My eyes seek out the different paths by which they went away, And oft I wish to follow, but oftener wish to stay; For fair as may the new things be, the farther things they know, This is a pleasant resting-place, a pleasant place also. There are flowers for the gathering, which grow my path anear, The skies are fair, and everywhere the sun is warm and clear: I may have missed the wine of life, the strong wine and the new, But I have my wells of water, my sips of honey-dew. So when I turn my thoughts from those who shared my dawn of day, My fresh and joyous morning prune, and now are passed away, I can see just how sweet all is, how good, and be resigned To sit thus in the afternoon, alone and left behind. SAVOIR C'EST PARDONNER. Myriad rivers seek the sea, The sea rejects not any one; A myriad rays of light may be Clasped in the compass of one sun; And myriad grasses, wild and free, Drink of the dew which faileth none. A myriad worlds encompass ours; A myriad souls our souls enclose; And each, its sins and woes and powers, The Lord He sees, the Lord He knows, And from the Infinite Knowledge flowers The Infinite Pity's fadeless rose. Lighten our darkness, Lord, most wise; All-seeing One, give us to see; Our judgments are profanities, Our ignorance is cruelty, While Thou, knowing all, dost not despise To pardon even such things as we. MORNING. O word and thing most beautiful! Our yesterday was cold and dull, Gray mists obscured the setting sun, Its evening wept with sobbing rain; But to and fro, mid shrouding night, Some healing angel swift has run, And all is fresh and fair again. O, word and thing most beautiful! The hearts, which were of cares so full, The tired hands, the tired feet, So glad of night, are glad of morn,-- Where are the clouds of yesterday? The world is good, the world is sweet, And life is new and hope re-born. O, word and thing most beautiful! O coward soul and sorrowful, Which sighs to note the ebbing light Give place to evening's shadowy gray! What are these things but parables,-- That darkness heals the wrongs of day, And dawning clears all mists of night. O, word and thing most beautiful! The little sleep our cares to lull, The long, soft dusk and then sunrise, To waken fresh and angel fair, Lite all renewed and cares forgot, Ready for Heaven's glad surprise. So Christ, who is our Light, be there. A BLIND SINGER. In covert of a leafy porch, Where woodbine clings, And roses drop their crimson leaves, He sits and sings; With soft brown crest erect to hear, And drooping wings.