I 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, singing low,
I hear the glad streams run ;
The windows of my soul I throw
Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind
I look in hope or fear,
But, grateful, take the good I find,
The best of now and here.

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
Aside the toiling oar,
The angel sought so far away
I welcome at my door.

The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
The south winds softly sigh,
And sweet, calm days, in golden haze,
Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word
Rebuke an age of wrong ;
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall learn to heal, -
To build as to destroy ;
Nor less my heart for others feel,
That I the more enjoy.

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.

Enough that blessings underserved
Have marked mine erring track ; -
That whensoe'er my feet have swerved,
His chastening turned me back ; -

That more and more a Providence
Of love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense
Sweet with eternal good ; -

And death seems but a covered way
Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray
Beyond the Father's sight ; -

That care and trial seem at last,
Through memory's sunset air,
Like mountain ranges overpast, -
The purple distance fair ;

That all the jarring notes of life
Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of the strife
Now rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,
And so the west winds play ;
And all the windows of my heart
I open to the day.