I lost the brook as it wound its way
⁠Like a thread of silver hue;
Through greenwood and valley, through meadows gay,
⁠'Twas hidden away from view:
But I found it again a noble river,
⁠Sparkling and broad and free,
Wider and fairer growing ever,
⁠Till it reached the boundless sea.

I lost the tiny seed that I sowed
⁠With many a sigh and tear,
And vainly waited through sunshine and cold
⁠For the young green to appear;
But surely after many long days
⁠The blossom and fruit will come,
And the reapers on high the sheaves will raise
⁠For a joyful harvest-home.

I lost the life that grew by my own
⁠For one short summer day;
And then it left me to wander alone,
⁠And silently passed away:
But I know I shall find it further on,
⁠Though not as it left me here;
For the shadows and mists will have passed, and gone,
⁠I shall see it fair and clear.

I lost the notes of the heavenly chime
⁠That once came floating by;
I have listened and waited many a time
For the echo, though distantly:
But I know in the halls of glory it thrills,
⁠Ever by day and night;
I shall hear it complete when its harmony fills
⁠My soul with great delight.

I lost the love that made my life,
⁠A love that was all for me;
Oh! vainly I sought it amid the strife
⁠Of the stormy, raging sea:
But deeper and purer I know it waits
Beyond my wistful eyes;
I shall find it again within the gates
⁠Of the garden of paradise.

I shall lose this life! it will disappear,
⁠With its wonderful mystery;
Some day it will move no longer here,
⁠But will vanish silently:
But I know I shall find it again once more,
⁠In a beauty no song hath told;
It will meet with me at the golden door,
⁠And round me forever fold.

On the stage an acted horror,
⁠A king crime-haunted to death;
Around me glitter and glare,
And fans that harry an air
⁠That stifles me breath by breath;

And eyes all one way gazing
⁠On the magical master-player,
Whose face, chameleon-wise,
Reflects all moods that arise, —
⁠Craft, crime, and credulous prayer.

I gaze, and listen — but sudden
⁠I dream in midst of the play;
And the king may threaten or whine,
It seems no matter of mine, —
⁠I am twenty miles away.

Down in a mossy dingle,
⁠Where sinless, a stranger to pain,
And friend to all winds that blow,
And hearing the fresh herbs grow,
⁠And feeling the dew or the rain,

A slight wind-flower is hiding,
⁠Green-scarfed, white-faced as the snow;
The young year's earliest child,
That I found last morn growing wild,
⁠And spoke with, and left it to grow.

Beautiful faces are those that wear —
It matters little if dark or fair —
Whole-souled honesty printed there.

Beautiful eyes are those that show,
Like crystal panes where hearth-fires glow,
Beautiful thoughts that burn below.

Beautiful lips are those whose words
Leap from the heart like songs of birds,
Yet whose utterance prudence girds.

Beautiful hands are those that do
Work that is earnest and brave and true,
Moment by moment the long day through.

Beautiful feet are those that go
On kindly ministries to and fro —
Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so.

Beautiful shoulders are those that bear
Ceaseless burdens of homely care
With patient grace and daily prayer.

Beautiful lives are those that bless —
Silent rivers of happiness,
Whose hidden fountains but few may guess.

Beautiful twilight, at set of sun,
Beautiful goal, with race well won,
Beautiful rest, with work well done.

Beautiful graves, where grasses creep,
Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep
Over worn-out hands — oh, beautiful sleep!