A little pause in life, while daylight lingers
⁠Between the sunset and the pale moonrise,
When daily labour slips from weary fingers,
⁠And soft grey shadows veil the aching eyes.

Old perfumes wander back from fields of clover
⁠Seen in the light of suns that long have set;
Beloved ones, whose earthly toil is over,
⁠Draw near, as if they lived among us yet.

Old voices call me, through the dusk returning,
⁠I hear the echoes of departed feet; —
And then I ask, with vain and troubled yearning.
⁠What is the charm that makes old things so sweet?

Must the old joys be evermore withholden?
⁠Even their memory keeps me pure and true;
And yet, from out Jerusalem the Golden
⁠God speaketh, saying, " I make all things new."

"Father," I cry, "the old must still be nearer;
⁠Stifle my love, or give me back the past!
Give me the fair old earth, whose paths are dearer
⁠Than all Thy shining streets, and mansions vast"

Peace, peace, — the Lord of earth and heaven knoweth
⁠The human soul in all its heat and strife;
Out of His throne no stream of Lethe floweth.
⁠But the clear river of eternal life.

He giveth life, ay, life in all its sweetness,
⁠Old loves, old sunny scenes will He restore;
Only the curse of sin and incompleteness
⁠Shall taint thine earth and vex thine heart no more.

Serve Him in daily work and earnest living.
⁠And faith shall lift thee to His sunlit heights;
Then shall a psalm of gladness and thanks-giving
⁠Fill the calm hour that comes between the lights.

Our love was born amid the purple heather,
⁠When winds were still, and vesper lights were red;
For one bright year we cherished it together;
⁠⁠⁠Now, it lies cold and dead.

Dead; and across the brown hill-ridges, wailing,
⁠Comes the wild autumn in her swift return.
With sullen tears, and misty garments trailing
⁠⁠⁠Over the faded fern.

Ah, there may come a time — God send it quickly —
⁠When love's lone grave shall wear a fragrant wreath
Of blooms, and velvet mosses, piling thickly
⁠⁠⁠Upon the dust beneath.

And we, across the heather slow returning,
⁠May seek, perchance, this sacred mound of ours;
Seek it, unvexed by any foolish yearning,
⁠⁠⁠And find it lost in flowers.

I am the flower that every age has sung.
My name has trembled on the unwilling tongue;
Midst sad farewells how mournfully has rung
⁠⁠⁠Forget-me-not!

I image best the heaven's eternal blue!
Though transient clouds may hide it from the view,
It shineth still, faith's never-changing hue,
⁠⁠⁠Forget-me-not.

The restless brook, the river's deeper flow.
Beside my quiet home still come and go;
I kiss the waters, murmuring soft and low,
⁠⁠⁠Forget-me-not.

The birds above me hovering on the wing,
List the hushed whisper, and the woodlands ring
With the light choral as they answering sing,
⁠⁠⁠Forget-me-not.

The laughing eddies hastening to the sea
With rippling echoes mock the symphony.
The rude winds toss it on their pinions free,
⁠⁠⁠Forget-me-not.

And human voices catch the sweet refrain.
In loving accents fraught with human pain,
Repeating still the never-dying strain,
⁠⁠⁠Forget-me-not.

With thee my thoughts are calm and sweet.
⁠Without thee they are wild and sad;
With thee my life is all complete,
⁠Without thee it is stormy — mad:
⁠⁠⁠⁠Be true to me, my love, be true!
⁠⁠⁠⁠I'm nothing, if I have not you.

With thee my heart is aye at rest,
⁠Without thee it is tempest-tost;
With thee my life is fully blest.
⁠Without thee I am wreck'd and lost:
⁠⁠⁠⁠Be true to me, my love, be true!
⁠⁠⁠⁠I'm nothing, if I have not you.