O little hands, long vanished in the night--
Sweet fairy hands that were my treasure here--
My heart is full of music from some sphere,
Where ye make melody for God's delight.
What is the gift we have given thee, Sister?
What is the trust we have laid in thy hand?
Hearts of our bravest, our best, and our dearest,
Blood of our blood we have sown in thy land.
It sleeps among the thousand hills
Where no man ever trod,
And only nature's music fills
The silences of God.
O rising Sun, so fair and gay,
What are you bringing me, I pray,
Of sorrow or of joy to-day?
In lonely watches night by night
Great visions burst upon my sight,
For down the stretches of the sky
The hosts of dead go marching by.
WINTER forests mutely standing
Naked on your bed of snow,
Wide your knotted arms expanding
To the biting winds that blow,
The immortal spirit hath no bars
To circumscribe its dwelling place;
My soul hath pastured with the stars
Upon the meadow-lands of space.
`Is Sin, then, fair?'
Nay, love, come now,
Put back the hair
From his sunny brow;
WHY hurry, little river,
Why hurry to the sea?
There is nothing there to do
But to sink into the blue