Smooth music from the roughest stone,

Being and suffering (which are one),

Only to loose these pilgrim shoon,

‘What love can ever cure this wound ?

Around Him, changeless amid all,

Cool deadly touch to these tired feet.

Where others drive their loaded wains?

Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,

Fair mists of seraphs melt and fall

I hear Him charge his saints that none

And listens for the creatures praise.

Is there no help, no comfort, —none?

And yet my days go on, go on.

Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,

He reigns below, He reigns alone,

The Day-spring He, whose days go on.

To mark all bright hours of the day

I love Thee while my days go on:

Perhaps the cup was broken here,

As a child drops his pebble small

Than when the rivers overleap

As one alone, once not alone,

And life that will not end in this!

The strongest on the longest day

And tender friends go sighing round,

Breath freezes on my lips to moan:

While the tears drop, my days go on.

What harm would that do? Green anon

—A Voice reproves me thereupon,

The little red hip on the tree

He reigns the Jealous God. Who mourns

My days go on, my days go on.

And there be safe, who now am tried

Smiling—so I. THY DAYS GO ON.

By anguish which made pale the sun,

With hourly love, is dimmed away—

The shuddering pines, and thunder on.

And havin

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g in thy life-depth thrown

No gleaning in the wide wheat plains

However darkly days go on.

What babble we of days and days?

That Heavens new wine might show more clear.

Rose up for me with life begun,

Not to be ended! Ended bliss,

Forgetting how the days go on.’

Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,

And cold before my summers done,

I thank Thee while my days go on.

Such liberal bounty? may I run

To give away to better creatures, —

Only to lift the turf unmown

Down some deep well, and hears it fall

Among his creatures anywhere

I trust Thee while my days go on.

I praise Thee while my days go on;

The tongue which, like a stream, could run

Grief may be joy misunderstood;

The sward would quicken, overshone

Thou knowehttp://wｗw•９９lｉb•ｎｅtst, willest what is done,

And makes all night. O dreams begun,

And dare not ask an equal boon.

He reigns above, He reigns alone;

The sharp regalia are for Thee

By days that painfully go on?

I knock and cry, —Undone, undone!

I sit and knock at Natures door,

Or rules with Him, while days go on?

No bird am I, to sing in June,

While my new rest went on, went on.

And here, with hope no longer here,

With steadfast love, is caught away,

‘This anguish pierces to the bone;’

The past rolls forward on the sun

Good nests and berries red are Natures

We will not struggle nor impugn.

I praise Thee while my days go on.

My vacant days go on, go on.

Blaspheme against Him with despair,

Thinks kindly of the bird ohttp://www.99lib.netf June:

Is ripe for such. What is for me,

Only the Good discerns the good.

No mortal grief deserves that crown.

From off the earth where it has grown,

With emptied arms and treasure lost,

Till days go out which now go on.

(Too early worn and grimed) with sweet

Gods Voice, not Natures! Night and noon

And, having life in love forgone

The face, which, duly as the sun,

My days go on, my days go on.

Whose desolated days go on.

And deaf in Natures general tune,

For us, —whatevers undergone,

Have leave to chirp there day and night

And every morning with Good day

Whose days so winterly go on?

Some cubit-space, and say ‘Behold,

Whatevers lost, it first was won;

And yet my days go on, go on.

The world goes whispering to its own,

For mine to lean and rest upon,

He sits upon the great white throne

So, lizard-like, within her side,

Whose days eternally go on!

By skies as blue; and crickets might

Beneath the crown of sovran thorns,

O supreme Love, chief misery,

And yet my days go on, go on.

And fallen too low for special fear,

And yet my days go on, go on.

Of bees is sweetest, and more deep

More sweet than Natures when the drone

Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown!

From gracious Nature have I won

I ask less kindness to be done, —

Systems burn out and have his throne;

The heart which, like a staff, was one

This Nature, though the snows be down,

Make each day good, is hushed away,

Ancient of Days, whose days go on.