 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
AUTUMN EVENING.
“And Isaac went out to meditate in the field at the even-tide.”
Go forth at morning's birth,
When the glad sun, exulting in his might,
Comes from the dusky, curtained tents of night,
Shedding his gifts of beauty o'er the earth;
When sounds of busy life are on the air,
And man awakes to labor and to care,
Then hie thee forth; go out amid thy kind,
Thy daily task to do, thy harvest sheaves to bind.
When the glad sun, exulting in his might,
Comes from the dusky, curtained tents of night,
Shedding his gifts of beauty o'er the earth;
When sounds of busy life are on the air,
And man awakes to labor and to care,
Then hie thee forth; go out amid thy kind,
Thy daily task to do, thy harvest sheaves to bind.
Go forth at noontide hour,
Beneath the heat and burden of the day
Pursue the labors of thine onward way,
Nor murmur if thou miss life's morning flower;
Where'er the footsteps of mankind are found
Thou still mayst find some spot of hallowed ground,
Where duty blossoms even as the rose,
Though sharp and stinging thorns the beauteous bud inclose.
Beneath the heat and burden of the day
Pursue the labors of thine onward way,
Nor murmur if thou miss life's morning flower;
Where'er the footsteps of mankind are found
Thou still mayst find some spot of hallowed ground,
Where duty blossoms even as the rose,
Though sharp and stinging thorns the beauteous bud inclose.
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Go forth at even-tide,
When sounds of toil no more the soft air fill,
When e'en the hum of insect life is still,
And the bird's song on evening's breeze has died;
Go forth, as did the patriarch of old,
And commune with thy heart's deep thoughts untold,
Fathom thy spirit's hidden depths, and learn
The mysteries of life, the fires that only burn.
When sounds of toil no more the soft air fill,
When e'en the hum of insect life is still,
And the bird's song on evening's breeze has died;
Go forth, as did the patriarch of old,
And commune with thy heart's deep thoughts untold,
Fathom thy spirit's hidden depths, and learn
The mysteries of life, the fires that only burn.
Go forth at even-tide,
The even-tide of summer, when the trees
Yield their frail honors to the passing breeze,
And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed;
When the mild sun his paling lustre shrouds
In gorgeous draperies of golden clouds,
Then wander forth 'mid beauty and decay,
To meditate alone,—alone to watch and pray.
The even-tide of summer, when the trees
Yield their frail honors to the passing breeze,
And woodland paths with autumn tints are dyed;
When the mild sun his paling lustre shrouds
In gorgeous draperies of golden clouds,
Then wander forth 'mid beauty and decay,
To meditate alone,—alone to watch and pray.
Go forth at even-tide,
Commune with thine own bosom and be still,
Check the wild impulses of wayward will,
And learn the nothingness of human pride;
Morn is the time to act, noon to endure,
But O, if thou wouldst keep thy spirit pure,
Turn from the beaten path by worldlings trod;
Go forth at even-tide, in heart to walk with God.
Commune with thine own bosom and be still,
Check the wild impulses of wayward will,
And learn the nothingness of human pride;
Morn is the time to act, noon to endure,
But O, if thou wouldst keep thy spirit pure,
Turn from the beaten path by worldlings trod;
Go forth at even-tide, in heart to walk with God.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |