How the year's seasons go
Since I am here.

This is my resting-place
Holy and dear,
Where pain's dejected face
May not appear;
This is the world to me,
Earth's woes I will not see,
But rest contentedly
Since I am here.

Is't your voice chiding, Love,
My mild career,
My meek abiding, Love,
Daily so near?--
"Danger and loss," to me?
Ah, Sweet, I fear to see
No loss but loss of _thee_,
And I am here.




SOOTHING.


I aimless wandered thro' the woods, and flung
My idle limbs upon a soft brown bank,
Where, thickly strewn, the worn-out russet leaves