Dear friend, I will not wish you perfect joy;
That comes not on this earth. No mortal drinks
An unmixed cup; all good has much alloy;
And life's long chain must have some iron links.

I wish, instead, that you may know the peace—
The steady calm—that comes of duty done.
The best springs feed, not torrents, soon to cease,
But summer rills, that through dry weather run.

Life hath its poetry, run how it may;—
I need not tell you that it hath its prose.
Your feet may bleed,—for thorns grow in the way—
But every thorn, remember, bears its rose.

Shut not your eyes, but turn them toward the light,
E'en when it struggles down in cloudy bars.
Dark days may come, and deepen into night;—
Oh, then look up, and you shall see the stars!

Thus, he whose hand you take to climb life's hill,
Shall find you at his side a presence sweet,
Giving, when needed, firmness to his will,
Strength to his arm, and fleetness to his feet.

Would you do more? no need to scour the land
For work to do; work of your own will come.
She who wants labor, finds it at her hand;
She who hath aught to say, need not be dumb.

I think you will be strong—I know you well;—
I think that you will seek to do the best
You find to do—yet what, I cannot tell.
Do it, be true, and leave to God the rest.

A H , blessedness of work; the aimless mind,
Left to pursue at will its fancies wild,
Returns at length, like some play-wearied child,
Unto its labor's knee, and leaves behind
Its little games, and learns to soothe its blind
Wide longings in the sweet tranquillity
Of limited tasks, whose mild successions wind
In pauseless waves unto the distant sea;
For blank infinity is cold as ice,
And drear the void of space unsown with stars,
And dolorous the barren line of shore;
Therefore it was with lover-like device
This lower world was built, through whose cleft bars
The limitless sun of Truth shines more and more.