 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
155
MY NAME,
“AFTER YOU HAVE TAKEN YOUR NEW NAME AMONG THE ANGELS.”
In the land where I am going
When my earthly life is o'er,
When the tired hands cease their striving
And the tried heart aches no more—
In that land of light and beauty
Where no shadow ever came
To o'ercloud the perfect glory,—
What shall be my angel name?
When my earthly life is o'er,
When the tired hands cease their striving
And the tried heart aches no more—
In that land of light and beauty
Where no shadow ever came
To o'ercloud the perfect glory,—
What shall be my angel name?
When the spirits who await me
Meet me at my entering in,
With what name of love and music
Will their welcoming begin?
Not the one so dimmed with earth-stains,
Linked with thoughts of grief and blame,—
No,—the name which mortals give me
Will not be my angel name!
Meet me at my entering in,
With what name of love and music
Will their welcoming begin?
Not the one so dimmed with earth-stains,
Linked with thoughts of grief and blame,—
No,—the name which mortals give me
Will not be my angel name!
156
I have heard it all too often
Uttered by unloving lips,—
Earthly cares and sins and sorrows
Dim it with their dark eclipse;—
I shall change it like a garment
When I leave this mortal frame,
And at Life's immortal baptism,
I shall have another name!
Uttered by unloving lips,—
Earthly cares and sins and sorrows
Dim it with their dark eclipse;—
I shall change it like a garment
When I leave this mortal frame,
And at Life's immortal baptism,
I shall have another name!
For the angels will not call me
By the name I bear on earth,
They will speak a holier language
Where I have my holier birth,
Syllabled in heavenly music
Sweeter far than earth may claim,
Very gentle, pure and tender,—
Such will be my angel name.
By the name I bear on earth,
They will speak a holier language
Where I have my holier birth,
Syllabled in heavenly music
Sweeter far than earth may claim,
Very gentle, pure and tender,—
Such will be my angel name.
It has thrilled my spirit often
In the holiest of my dreams,
But its beauty lingers with me
Only till the morning beams.
Weary of the jarring discord
Which the lips of mortals frame,
When shall I, with joy and rapture,
Answer to my angel name?
In the holiest of my dreams,
But its beauty lingers with me
Only till the morning beams.
Weary of the jarring discord
Which the lips of mortals frame,
When shall I, with joy and rapture,
Answer to my angel name?
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |