Heart, yield not to mourning
That all thy light is gone,
Nor grieve when thy deep well-springs
To far-off clouds are drawn.
Clouds are jewel-caskets,
Robbing but to dower;
Thy brooks will soon be brimming
Beneath the kindly shower.
And though the twilight grayly
Imprisons dell and lawn,
The shadows born of sunset
Like ringers beckon on,—
Ay, like pale prophets gliding,
The shadows beckon on,
And while they steal the sunlight
Are pointing toward the dawn.
