Still is it night.
The thought which moved my heart but now, hath gone,
But with the light
It must return—I will await the dawn.


'Tis winter still;
The world is cold as yet; so late the snow
Lies on the hill,
The footsteps of the waking hour, so slow.


Yet one may hear
The soundless music of the frozen stream,
By bending near:
Thus joy is mingled in this sorrow's dream.


Shall I repine?
At all times—somewhere on this turning earth—
The sun doth shine;
The death of hope must be the new hope's birth.


If then the shade
Must ever fall where I shall chance to be,
And I have made
The shadow mine—still must it comfort me.


Still shall I climb,
Even though the stars shine not on my steep way
Sometime—sometime—
That upland I will gain, and find the day.


And if God's grace
Hath closed the path, yet my last step shall be
With my dead face
Turned to that land which I have longed to see.