#English
Such look of an immortal likeness… At times into the eyes of dear dum… As if Hereafter we must recognize The Unknown Life that knew us in…
A FEW more Meetings on the Deep… And partings on the shore; And then in Heaven at last we kee… Our tryst for evermore. A little further we must bear
Slow step by step, day after day, I journey on my homeward way; And darkly dream the Land of Ligh… Is drawing near, night after night… Where I shall reach my Rest at la…
SPIRIT Divine, we yearn and str… Within our souls to keep alive Some likeness of Thy love! But 'tis at best a glimpse, a glea… Uncertain as a troubled stream
Your tiny picture makes me yearn; We are so far apart! My Darling, I can only turn And kiss you in my heart. A thousand tender thoughts a-wing
Surrounded by unnumbered Foes, Against my soul the battle goes! Yet though I weary, sore-distress… I know that I shall reach my Rest… I lift my tearful eyes above,—
You are the Merry men, dwarfs of… Who can get your hand through the… And make your bells jingle outside… Prove there’s life beyond, and on… 'Tis trying to find that we are mo…
Although its features fade in ligh… We have shadowy revealings of the… A little glimpse, when Spring unv… Of the Sleeping Beauty in the sou… A little drop of Heaven in each d…
The stream of Life that brimmed i… We drain to gather Wisdom’s grain… And often as we count the riches o… Half wish our wealth were drowned…
FATHER in Heaven, we seek Thy… When darkness is our dwelling-plac… Our foolish hearts, that daily roa… Would nightly nestle with Thee at… Be with us Here, and grant that w…
The Day goes down red darkling, The moaning waves dash out the lig… And there is not a star of hope sp… On the threshold of my night. Wild winds of Autumn go wailing
HAS Man a spirit that’s more tha… A spirit that walks in sleep or in… Shakes off at will its dust of the… And, waking by night, goes wanderi… To work its wish with a noiseless…
The tender green that laughs out i… And drinks the freshness of the de… Must take the cloud of dust that t… And burnish every tiny blade again… The river into which heaven cometh…
‘TIS hard to die in Spring-time, When, to mock our bitter need, All life around runs over In its fullness without heed: New life for tiniest twig on tree,
No green age, beautiful to see, Hath Poor Old Gran! No ripe life mellowed goldenly Hath Poor Old Gran! One by one we have left her fold,
