When the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul that slumbered
To a holy, calm delight,—
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight
Dance upon the parlor wall;
Then the forms of the departed
Enter at the open door...
I Walked the other day, to spend my hour,
Into a field,
Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yield
A gallant flower:
But winter now had ruffled all the bower
And curious store
I knew there heretofore.
Yet I, whose search loved not to peep and peer
In the face of things,
Thought with myself,...
The Work of the sun is slow,
But as sure as heaven, we know;
So we ’ll not forget,
When the skies are wet,
There ’s green grass under the snow.
When the winds of winter blow,
Wailing like voices of woe,
There are April showers,
And buds and flowers,
And green grass under the snow.
We find that...
Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,
And yet the monument proclaims it not,
Nor round the sleeper’s name hath chisel wrought
The emblems of a fame that never dies,
Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf,
Twined with the laurel’s fair, imperial leaf.
A simple name alone,
To the great world unknown,
Is graven here...
Thou art gone to the grave—but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;
The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,
And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom.
Thou art gone to the grave—we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side;
But the wide arms...
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year,
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young...
Translated by Sir Edwin Arnold
From “Pearls of the Faith”
He made life—and He takes it—but instead
Gives more: praise the Restorer, Al-Mu’hid!
HE who dies at Azan 1 sends
This to comfort faithful friends:—
Faithful friends! it lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And ye says, “Abdullah ’s dead!”
Weeping at...
It is not death to die,
To leave this weary road,
And, midst the brotherhood on high,
To be at home with God.
It is not death to close
The eye long dimmed by tears,
And wake in glorious repose,
To spend eternal years.
It is not death to bear
The wrench that sets us free
From dungeon-chain, to breathe...
There is no death! the stars go down
To rise upon some other shore,
And bright in heaven’s jewelled crown
They shine forever more.
There is no death! the forest leaves
Convert to life the viewless air;
The rocks disorganize to feed
The hungry moss they bear.
There is no death! the dust we tread
Shall change,...
GOING—the great round Sun,
Dragging the captive Day
Over behind the frowning hill,
Over beyond the bay,—
Dying:
Coming—the dusky Night,
Silently stealing in,
Wrapping himself in the soft warm couch
Where the golden-haired Day hath been
Lying.
Going—the bright, blithe Spring;
...
