68 
NOVEMBER, 
MOURN no more my vanished years : 
Beneath a tender rain, 
An April rain, of smiles and tears, 
My heart is young again. 
The west winds blow, and sighing low, 
I hear the glad streams run; 
The windows of my soul I throw 
Wide open to the sun. 
I plough no more a desert land, 
To reap hut weed and tare: 
The manna dropping from God’s hand 
Rebukes my painful care. 
I break my pilgrim-statf,—I lay 
Aside my toiling oar; 
The angel sought so far away 
I welcome at my door. 
The airs of Spring may never play 
Among the ripening corn, 
Nor freshness of the flowers of May 
Blow through an Autumn morn. 
Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 
Through fringed lids to heaven ; 
And the pale aster in the brook 
Shall see its image given; 
The woods shall wear their robes of praise, 
The south wind softly sigh, 
And sweet, calm days in golden haze 
Melt down the amber sky. 
All as God wills, who wisely heeds 
To give or to withhold, 
And knoweth more of all my needs 
Than all my prayers have told. 
