A Quiet Life

YOU scorn my dwelling as you pass it by;
I do not say, Come in ;
You are a stranger to the company
I entertain therein.

My house is humble, yet within its walls
Contentment doth abide ;
And from the wings of Peace a blessing falls,
Like dew at eventide.

You think my soul is narrow, like the room
Wherein I toil for bread,
And that, because oblivion is my doom,
I might as well be dead.

Yet are you sure the riches are not mine,
The poverty your own ?
Is he not rich who finds his lot divine,
In hovel or on throne ?

You judge me by the narrow boundaries
’Twixt which my body moves;
But I behold a wider land that lies
Free to the soul that loves.

Is that not mine in which I hourly take
My largess of delight?
Are not all things created for his sake
Who reads their meaning right?

Is it not mine, this landscape I behold? —
Mine to enjoy and use
For all life’s noblest uses, though no gold
Has made it mine to lose?

I know the wood-paths where the feet of Spring,
Have left their prints in flowers ;
And all the carols that the wild birds sing
Through the long summer hours.

I watch the changeful light upon the grass,
The wind-waves in the grain ;
I note the swift cloud-shadows as they pass
Above the breezy plain.

Mine are the stillness of the autumn noons,
The peace of tranquil eves,
The sunset splendors, and the glimmering moons,
The rain-fall on the leaves.

I cannot count the half of daily joys
Which kindly Nature gives ;
For while some homely task my hands employs,
With her my spirit lives.

Nor these alone the pleasures that I know,
The riches I possess ;
Still other things are mine, and they bestow
A deeper happiness.

For unto me the past, with all its store
Of untold wealth, belongs ;
To me the singers and the saints of yore
Repeat their prayers and songs.

For me again the long-past centuries yield
The harvest of their thought;
My gleaning brings me sheaves from many a field
Where stronger hearts have wrought.

Mine is the present, too ; nor let it be
Despised as little worth :
I could not tell of all the good I see
Each day upon the earth.

What matters that my hands may never touch
The hands I venerate ?
I thank my God that he has given such
To guide and guard the state.

And for the future,—but I may not speak
Of all I hope for then !
The glories of that city which I seek
No tongue can tell, or pen.

So the day rounds to fulness, and the night
Is blessed, like the day ;
For God, who makes the darkness and the light,
Keeps every fear away.