“Der Abend Ist Der Beste.”

THE morning hours are joyful fair, With call of bird and scent of dew; And blent with shining gold and blue And glad the summer noontides are; The slow sun lingering seeks the west, As loath to leave and grieve so soon The long and fragrant afternoon; But still the evening is the best.

Day may be full as day may be,— Her hands all heaped with gifts, her eyes Alight with joyful prophecies; But still we turn where wistfully The veilèd evening, dimly fair, Stands in the shadow without speech, And holds her one gift out to each,— Her gift of rest, for all to share.

Ah! sweetly falls the sunset glow On silver hairs, all peaceful bent To catch the last rays, and content To watch the twilight softly grow; Content to face the night and keep The peaceful vigil of the eve, And like a little child to breathe A “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

Ah, close of life! Ah, close of day! Which thinks of morn without regret; Which thinks of busy noon, and yet Grieves not to put its toils away; Which, calmed with thoughts of coming rest, Watches the sweet, still evening fade, Counting its hours all unafraid,— Surely the evening is the best.

OPTIMISM.

YOU tell me, with a little scorn, A pitying blame in look and touch, Of conscious worldly-wisdom born, That I am hopeful over much;

That all my swans are veriest geese, My cheerfulness an easy vent For animal spirits, and my peace A cheap, contemptible content;

That it is shallow to be glad, Idle to hope and vain to trust, Because all good is mixed with bad, And men are liars, and flesh is dust;

That wisdom grimly prophesies, And sits distrustful and alert, Peering with far, experienced eyes For what may cheat and what may hurt.

I do not know if you are right; But these I hold as certainties: That God made day as well as night, And joy as well as pain is his;

That if philosophy means doubt, And wisdom boding discontents, Men may do better far without These all-divine accomplishments!

That souls are stronger to endure The heavy woes which all may taste, If, holding to God’s promise sure, They wait his time, not making haste

To grieve, anticipating ill; How shall they know what sweet, hid thing He keeps in store for souls who still Follow his beck unquestioning?

Joy is the lesson set for some, For others pain best teacher is; We know not which for us shall come, But both are Heaven’s high ministries.

The swollen torrent rages high; The path ahead is steep and wet. What then? We still are safe and dry; We need not cross that torrent yet!

Perhaps the waters may subside; There may be paths which skirt the flood. God holds our hand. With him for guide We need not fear; for he is good.

Meanwhile there is the sun, the sky, And life the joy, and love the zest; And, spite of scorn and pity, I Will taste to-day, and trust the rest.