Whenever the sun shines brightly,
I rise and say:
"Surely it is the shining of his face!"
And look unto the gates of his high place
Beyond the sea;
For I know he is coming shortly
To summon me.
And when a shadow falls across the window
Of my room,
Where I am working my appointed task,
I lift my head to watch the door, and ask
If he is come;
And the angel answers sweetly
In my home:
"Only a few more shadows,
And he will come."
BARBARA MILLER MACANDREW.
* * * * *
EUTHANASIA.
Methinks, when on the languid eye
Life's autumn scenes grow dim;
When evening's shadows veil the sky;
And pleasure's siren hymn
Grows fainter on the tuneless ear,
Like echoes from another sphere,
Or dreams of seraphim--
It were not sad to cast away
This dull and cumbrous load of clay.
It were not sad to feel the heart
Grow passionless and cold;
To feel those longings to depart
That cheered the good of old;
To clasp the faith which looks on high,
Which fires the Christian's dying eye,
And makes the curtain-fold
That falls upon his wasting breast,
The door that leads to endless rest.
It seems not lonely thus to lie
On that triumphant bed,
Till the pure spirit mounts on high
By white-winged seraphs led:
Where glories, earth may never know,
O'er "many mansions" lingering glow,
In peerless lustre shed.
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