LUCERN. 
Life. 
“ The hours are viewless angels, 
That still go gliding by, 
And bear each minute’s record up 
To Him who dwells on high. 
“ And we who walk among them, 
As one by one departs, 
See not that they are hovering 
Forever round our hearts. 
“Like summer bees that hover 
Around the idle flowers, 
They gather every act and thought, 
Those viewless angel-hours. 
“The poison or the nectar, 
The heart’s deep flower-cups yield, 
A sample still they gather swift, 
And leave us in the field. 
“And some flit by on pinions 
Of joyous gold and blue, 
And some flag on with drooping wings 
Of sorrow’s darker hue. 
“And still they steal the record, 
And bear it far away; 
Their mission-flight by day or night, 
No magic power can sway. 
“And as we spend each minute 
That God to us hath given, 
The deeds are known before His throne, 
The tale is told in Heaven. 
“These bee-like hours we see not, 
Nor hear their noiseless wings; 
We only feel, too oft, when flown, 
That they have left their stings. 
