The glad hearts send the gladness Over all the fields we go, And the glory of the sunshine Brightens all the world we know; O, brothers, come along! Let us sing the rain-bow song While the roses rim the meadows of the morning! The good Lord gives his bounties To his children through the years, And his gifts of love and labor Conquer all the griefs and tears; O, brother, bye and bye We shall reach the home on high While the roses rim the meadows of the morning! Fields of May. Here's a road that's never long, Where it leads away Through the blossom and the song To the fields of May! There the rain-bow bends above Bags of gold, they say; And there's laughter, light and love In the fields of May! Here's the road that's never long! Come and let's away, Through the blossom and the song To the fields of May! With all the strife and struggle after riches, the greatest joys of life are forever more the gifts of nature, within the reach of rich and poor alike, and beyond the measurings of gold. The clear sky and the green grass, the sunshine of the noon, and the dew of the morning, the blossom and the bird-song, good health and sound sleep, and the love of a man for a woman and of a woman for a man,--these have no prices in the catalogues of wealth and poverty alike. The Journey. This life, my dear, is a varied journey And most of its ways are queer, But those who laugh through its work and wonder Will find that it holds good cheer; And whether we laugh or languish And whether we sigh or sing, I am sure that still There is good for ill And the flash of an angel wing! The world, my dear, and the folk that use it Care naught for our waste or worth; The smile and sorrow of hope and hurry Are small to the brave old earth; And whether with pain or pleasure And whether with smiles or tears, There is something glad For the dark and sad, And we go to the blessed years. The deeds, my dear, that we faint in doing, The dreams that we catch and cherish, To those that walk in the ways beside us Are naught when they fall and perish; But whether they fail or triumph And whether the rue or rose, To the hearts that hold They are more than gold Till the years of the gods unclose. It's up, my dear, with the purple morning, And death to the heart's annoy; No stop nor stay on the endless journey To rest on the hills of joy! And whether the paths are easy And whether the roads are long, There is rapture still For the ache and ill, As we wander the ways with song!