When children clasp their hands and pray "Be done Thy Heavenly Will!" Who doth not lift his voice, and say, 'Life is worth living still"?
Is life worth living? Yes, so long
As there is wrong to right,
Wail of the weak against the strong,
Or tyranny to fight;
Long as there lingers gloom to chase,
Or streaming tear to dry,
One kindred woe, one sorrowing face
That smiles as we draw nigh;
Long as at tale of anguish swells
The heart, and lids grow wet,
And at the sound of Christmas bells
We pardon and forget;
So long as Faith with Freedom reigns,
And loyal Hope survives,
And gracious Charity remains
To leaven lowly lives;
While there is one untrodden tract
For Intellect or Will
And men are free to think and act,
Life is worth living still.
Not care to live while English homes
Nestle in English trees,
And England's Trident-Sceptre roams
Her territorial seas!
Not live while English songs are sung
Wherever blows the wind,
And England's laws and England's tongue
Enfranchise half mankind!
So long as in Pacific main
Or on Atlantic strand,
Our kin transmit the parent strain,
And love the Mother-land;
So long as flashes English steel,
And English trumpets shrill,
He is dead already who doth not feel
Life is worth living still.
HE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er;
So calm are we when passions are no more.
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
Lets in new light through chinks that Time hath made:
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become
As they draw near to their eternal home.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view
That stand upon the threshold of the new.
WOULD not, if I could, repeat
A life which still is good and sweet;
I keep in age, as in my prime,
A not uncheerful step with Time,
And, grateful for all blessings sent,
go the common way, content
To make no new experiment.
On easy terms with law and fate,
For what must be I calmly wait,
And trust the path I cannot see—
That God is good sufficeth me.
And when at last upon life's play
The curtain falls, I only pray
That hope may lose itself in truth,
And age in Heaven's immortal youth,
And all our loves and longing prove
The foretaste of diviner love.
HEN the earth darkens, and the voices call— Old friends', old loves'-what thing that you have done
Will you remember gladly? Will it be
The knowledge hardly won, and at the end
The masterpiece men bow to?
Some picture that shall live throughout the years,
And ever be a shining mystery
To carve some miracle of loveliness
That shall not perish! O, to write a book
With all the best that you have seen and heard
And suffered, set forth there upon the page,
So that, through all the ages, one at least
Shall read and make you immortal!
Till Art seems Life; but when the voices call
And the earth darkens, and the stars are veiled,
You will forget the prayer, forget the deed.
You will remember how you gave a flower
Once, to a child that wept, and how the face
Of the tired mother blessed you as the child
Laughed, and was quieted. On a time, a word,
And a hand's touch that lingered, gave to one,
Tempted and tried, the courage that was lost.
Once, long ago, there was a little maid,
And though the years have hid her, you will know
Her perfect faith the best of all your gain.
Thus, when earth darkens and the voices call,
Art will grow less, and small forgotten things
Will steal, like stars into the evening sky,
Into your heart, and you will hear the call
And, at the last, make answer, well content.
HEY are waiting on the shore
For the bark to take them home;
They will toil and grieve no more;
The hour for release has come.
All their long life lies behind
Like a dimly blending dream:
There is nothing left to bind
To the realms that only seem.
They are waiting for the boat;
There is nothing left to do:
What was near them grows remote,
Happy silence falls like dew;
Now the shadowy bark is come,
And the weary may go home.
By still water they would rest
In the shadow of the tree;
After battle sleep is best,
After noise, tranquillity.
HEN I am dead, my dearest,
Sing no sad songs for me;
Plant thou no roses at my head,
Nor shady cypress tree:
Be the green grass above me
With showers and dewdrops wet;
And if thou wilt, remember,
And if thou wilt, forget.
I shall not see the shadows,
I shall not feel the rain;
I shall not hear the nightingale
Sing on, as if in pain:
And dreaming through the twilight
That doth not rise nor set,
Haply I may remember,
And haply may forget.
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