It was an autumn day
When next I went that way.
And what, think you, did I say,
What was it that I heard,
What music was in the air?
The song of a sweet-voiced bird?
Nay--but the songs of many
Thrilled through with praise and prayer.
Of all those voices not any
Were sad of memory;
But a sea of sunlight flowed,
A golden harvest glowed,
And I said, Thou only art wise,
God of the earth and skies!
And I praise thee, again and again,
For the Sower whose name is Pain.
--Richard Watson Gilder.
Not disabled in the combat,
No, nor absent from your post;
You are doing gallant service
Where the Master needs you most.
It was noble to give battle
While the world stood cheering on;
It is nobler to lie patient,
Leaving half one's work undone.
And the King counts up his heroes
Where the desperate charge was led,
But he writes, "My Best Beloved,"
Over many a sick man's bed.