I grieve not with the moaning wind
    As if a loss befell;
Before me, even as behind,
    God is, and all is well!

His light shines on me from above,
    His low voice speaks within,—
The patience of immortal love
    Outwearying mortal sin.

Not mindless of the growing years
    Of care and loss and pain,
My eyes are wet with thankful tears
    For blessings which remain.

If dim the gold of life has grown,
    I will not count it dross,
Nor turn from treasures still my own
    To sigh for lack and loss.

The years no charm from Nature take;
    As sweet her voices call,
As beautiful her mornings break,
    As fair her evenings fall.

Love watches o’er my quiet ways,
    Kind voices speak my name,
And lips that find it hard to praise
    Are slow, at least, to blame.

How softly ebb the tides of will!
    How fields, once lost or won,
Now lie behind me green and still
    Beneath a level sun.

How hushed the hiss of party hate,
    The clamor of the throng!
How old, harsh voices of debate
    Flow into rhythmic song!

Methinks the spirit’s temper grows
    Too soft in this still air;
Somewhat the restful heart foregoes
    Of needed watch and prayer.

The bark by tempest vainly tossed
    May founder in the calm,
And he who braved the polar frost
    Faint by the isles of balm.

Better than self-indulgent years
    The outflung heart of youth,
Than pleasant songs in idle ears
    The tumult of the truth.

Rest for the weary hands is good,
    And love for hearts that pine,
But let the manly habitude
    Of upright souls be mine.

Let winds that blow from heaven refresh,
    Dear Lord, the languid air;
And let the weakness of the flesh
    Thy strength of spirit share.

And, if the eye must fail of light,
    The ear forget to hear,
Make clearer still the spirit’s sight,
    More fine the inward ear!

Be near me in mine hours of need
    To soothe, or cheer, or warn,
And down these slopes of sunset lead
    As up the hills of morn!