 | Song in September |  |
167
THE WELCOME
Upon his couch, with body spoiled,
Year after year the sick man lay,
And, forcing Courage onward, toiled
To help the helpers of his way.
Year after year the sick man lay,
And, forcing Courage onward, toiled
To help the helpers of his way.
If Mercy passed the simple cot,
Or Anguish entered by surprise,
Within his heart he kept a grot
For Cheerfulness, and lifted eyes
Or Anguish entered by surprise,
Within his heart he kept a grot
For Cheerfulness, and lifted eyes
That never ceased to offer Pain
A battleground (Ah, sacred room,
For those who loved him you remain
A temple sweet with holy bloom!)
A battleground (Ah, sacred room,
For those who loved him you remain
A temple sweet with holy bloom!)
At heart of night in middle May,
Soundless as if on moss he stepped,
The powerful Reaper thrust his way
Past all who knelt and prayed and wept.
Soundless as if on moss he stepped,
The powerful Reaper thrust his way
Past all who knelt and prayed and wept.
168
From glazing eyes a welcome sped
Was lovelier than the loveliest star,
As brokenly the sufferer said,
‘Why, Friend, how—very late—you are!
Was lovelier than the loveliest star,
As brokenly the sufferer said,
‘Why, Friend, how—very late—you are!
| Song in September | |