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The Song of Love.
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|
 | The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal |  |
The Song of Love.
I passed along the meadows fair,
The lark's loud carol filled the air,
A living song up-soaring.
A wanderer passed along, and sang
A song that all the lark's outrang,
His very soul outpouring.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’
The lark's loud carol filled the air,
A living song up-soaring.
A wanderer passed along, and sang
A song that all the lark's outrang,
His very soul outpouring.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’
I passed along the forest green,
And heard a song ring out between
The leafy aisles o'erarching.
The music filled the silent shade,
The singer passed through glen and glade,
With steady footstep marching.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’
And heard a song ring out between
The leafy aisles o'erarching.
The music filled the silent shade,
The singer passed through glen and glade,
With steady footstep marching.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’
I lingered by the river side,
And watched a tiny vessel glide,
And saw the white sails glisten:
The helm was in the wanderer's hand,
The same clear music reached the strand,
And bid my whole soul listen.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’
And watched a tiny vessel glide,
And saw the white sails glisten:
216
The same clear music reached the strand,
And bid my whole soul listen.
‘Still onward to my quiet home,
With yearning, glad endeavour,
Still singing all the way I roam
A song of love for ever.’
I passed the quiet churchyard bound,
And stood beside a new-made mound
In silent sunset glory;
The flowering grasses, fresh and fair,
Waved lightly in the golden air,
And softly told the story.
‘He resteth in his blessèd home,
Whence nothing now can sever,
Still singing, though no more to roam,
His song of love for ever.’
And stood beside a new-made mound
In silent sunset glory;
The flowering grasses, fresh and fair,
Waved lightly in the golden air,
And softly told the story.
‘He resteth in his blessèd home,
Whence nothing now can sever,
Still singing, though no more to roam,
His song of love for ever.’
| The Poetical Works of Frances Ridley Havergal | |