Not Mourning, but Remembering
By C. A. Smith
WE do not mourn for the stars so bright,
That shine on our path in the dreary night,
And pass from our sight away;
But we think of the joy their rays have given,
As they shed their light where our feet have striven
Along our darkened way;
And we know they rise on other eyes,
And other hearts their light will prize
As they sink with silver ray;
And we know each passing star foretells
The coming dawn, from which there wells
The joy of the golden day. We do not mourn for the blooms of spring,
That wide their fragrance softly fling,
As they open, and, passing, fade;
For we know the luscious fruit will come,
A blessed gift to each heart and home,
'Neath the green leaves' tender shade;
And we know that the summer's gorgeous flowers,
That cheer and charm this world of ours
As they wave on each swaying blade,
But betoken the welcome harvest-time,
When all rich nature seems a-rime
O'er hill and dell and glade. We do not mourn for the birds a-wing,
That float and soar as they gladly sing
To us on every hand,
And then, without a word or tear,
Leave us, to pass with notes of cheer
To gladden some other land;
But we think of the gladsome songs they've sung,
And how our hearts in response have rung
To the joyous singing band;
And we'd urge them on with quicker flight,
To make some other sad land bright,
Could we the birds command.