English

Down comes the winter rain—
Spoils my hat and bow—
Runs into the poll of me;
But mother won't know.

We've been out and caught a cold,
Knee-deep in snow;
Such a lucky thing it is
That mother won't know!

Rosy lost herself last night—
Couldn't tell where to go.
Yes—it rather frightened her,
But mother didn't know.

Somebody made Willy drunk
At the Christmas show:
O 'twas fun! It's well for him
That mother won't know!

Howsoever wild we are,
Late at school or slow,

All night I dream you love me well,
All day I dream that you are cold:
Which is the dream? ah, who can tell,
Ah would that it were told.

So I should know my certain doom,
Know all the gladness or the pain;
So pass into the dreamless tomb,
Or never doubt again.

The King's Daughter is all glorious within,
Her clothing of wrought gold sets forth her bliss;
Where the endless choruses of heaven begin
The King's Daughter is;

Perfect her notes in the perfect harmonies;
With tears wiped away, no conscience of sin,
Loss forgotten and sorrowful memories;

Alight with Cherubin, afire with Seraphin,
Lily for pureness, rose for charities,
With joy won and with joy evermore to win,
The King's Daughter is.

I lift mine eyes to see: earth vanisheth.
I lift up wistful eyes and bend my knee:
Trembling, bowed down, and face to face with Death,
I lift mine eyes to see.

Lo, what I see is Death that shadows me:
Yet whilst I, seeing, draw a shuddering breath,
Death like a mist grows rare perceptibly.

Beyond the darkness light, beyond the scathe
Healing, beyond the Cross a palm-branch tree,
Beyond Death Life, on evidence of faith:
I lift mine eyes to see.

Lord, to Thine own grant watchful hearts and eyes;
Hearts strung to prayer, awake while eyelids sleep;
Eyes patient till the end to watch and weep.
So will sleep nourish power to wake and rise
With Virgins who keep vigil and are wise,
To sow among all sowers who shall reap,
From out man's deep to call Thy vaster deep,
And tread the uphill track to Paradise.
Sweet souls! so patient that they make no moan,
So calm on journey that they seem at rest,
So rapt in prayer that half they dwell in heaven

Long and dark the nights, dim and short the days,
Mounting weary heights on our weary ways,
Thee our God we praise.
Scaling heavenly heights by unearthly ways,
Thee our God we praise all our nights and days,
Thee our God we praise.

1. Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream;
For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.
2. Life is real! life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul!

3. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end and way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us further than today.

4. Lives of true men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Foot-prints on the sands of time;

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;--

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!--
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating

He gave you love for an hour,
He gave you gold for a day,
My sweetheart, my wonderful flower;
He tempted you, led you astray.
But I would have given my heart to you,
Darling, my love and my pride;
Opened its every part to you,
Made you my being's bride!

What did he give you? Riches!
What are they all but a dream?
Wait but till Death's hand twitches
The curtain—away they stream
I would have given you passion
Pure as God's love, and as free:
I would have loved in the fashion,