 | Poems |  |
[My hair is gathering gray apace]
My hair is gathering gray apace;
There's silver in it seen at last;
More thin and care-worn grows my face,
And age creeps near, now youth is past;
I've known what forty years can take,
What forty changeful years can bring,
Time, perhaps, my songs less gay may make,
But, blessed be God, I still can sing.
There's silver in it seen at last;
More thin and care-worn grows my face,
And age creeps near, now youth is past;
I've known what forty years can take,
What forty changeful years can bring,
Time, perhaps, my songs less gay may make,
But, blessed be God, I still can sing.
Yes, I have lived my life's fresh Spring,
The laughing May of all my years,
When, in the light that hope can fling
On all things, earth a heaven appears;
Ah, May and hope, I've left behind
Too far to feel as in my Spring;
But yet I have not song resigned,
No, blessed be God, I still can sing.
The laughing May of all my years,
When, in the light that hope can fling
On all things, earth a heaven appears;
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Too far to feel as in my Spring;
But yet I have not song resigned,
No, blessed be God, I still can sing.
I've learned that as we onward range,
Each year its cares and toils must know,
That pleasures into griefs must change,
That gleams the cloudiest skies can show;
Yet, though I soberer plod along,
My age has glimpses of my Spring;
Yes, still its sunshine's in my song,
And, blessed be God, I still can sing.
Each year its cares and toils must know,
That pleasures into griefs must change,
That gleams the cloudiest skies can show;
Yet, though I soberer plod along,
My age has glimpses of my Spring;
Yes, still its sunshine's in my song,
And, blessed be God, I still can sing.
Little's the leisure that I have;
At times I tread a weary way;
At times, for rest, my life will crave,
From the dull labours of each day;
So years go by, I know my days
My share of good and gladness bring,
But, best of blessings, God, I praise
The most that still He bids me sing.
At times I tread a weary way;
At times, for rest, my life will crave,
From the dull labours of each day;
So years go by, I know my days
My share of good and gladness bring,
But, best of blessings, God, I praise
The most that still He bids me sing.
Yes, the thrush sings, though Summer's come,
As though the Spring were round it still;
O may my Autumn not be dumb,
And song-bursts still my Winter fill!
Linger with me, O dear delight!
I hardly care what time may bring;
Care, toil, and sorrow sink from sight,
While, blessed be God, I still can sing.
As though the Spring were round it still;
O may my Autumn not be dumb,
And song-bursts still my Winter fill!
Linger with me, O dear delight!
I hardly care what time may bring;
Care, toil, and sorrow sink from sight,
While, blessed be God, I still can sing.
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