Life hath its barren years,

When blossoms fall untimely down,

When ripened fruitage fails to crown

The summer toil, when nature’s frown

Looks only on our tears.

Life hath its faithless days;

The golden promise of the morn,

That seemed for light and gladness born,

Meant only noontide wreck and scorn,

Hushed harp instead of praise.

Life hath its valleys, too,

Where we must walk with vain regret,

With mourning clothed, with wild rain wet,

Toward sunlight hopes that soon must set,

All quenched in pitying dew.

Life hath its harvest moons,

Its tasseled corn and purple-weighed vine;

Its gathered shaves of grain, the blessed sign

Of plenteous ripening bread and pure rich wine,

Full hearts for harvest tunes.

Life hath its hopes fulfilled;

Its glad fruitions, its best answered prayer,

Sweeter for waiting long, whose holy air,

Indrawn to silent souls, breathes forth its rare,

Grand speech, by joy distilled.

— Author unknown