Dublin Core




Oh harvest sun, serenely shining

On waving fields and leafy bowers,

On garden wall and latticed vine,

Thrown brightly, as in by-gone hours.

Oh ye sweet voices of the wind,

Wooing our tears, in angel tones;

Friends of my youth, shall I not weep?

Ye are still here, but they are gone.

I see the maples, tossing ever

Their silvery leaves up to the sky;

Still chasing o'er the old homestead's walls,

The trembling light, their shadows fly

Familiar forms and gentle faces

Once glanced beneath each waving bough,

And glad tones rung: Shall I not weep

That all is lone and silent now?

Nay, for like heavenly whispers stealing,

Comes now this memory divine,

Where thy clear beams, Oh, sun of autumn,

Through the stained windows richly shine;

A solemn strain, the organ blending,

Like a priest's voice, its glorious chord,

Is on the charmed air ascending;

"Come, let us sing unto the Lord,"

And while the earth, year after year,

Puts all her golden glory on,

And like it, God's most holy love

Comes now, with every morning's dawn

"Singing unto the Lord." I love,

With all the hosts that speak His praise.

I may not walk the earth alone,

Nor sorrow for departed days.

I know the friends I loved so well,

Through the years of their life-long race,

Lifted sweet eyes of faith to God,

And now they see His blessed face.

Thou, Lord forever be my song,

And I'll not week for days gone by;

But give Thee back each hallowed hour,

A seed of immortality.


Grace A. Mapps


1:11, pp. 345-6




Grace A. Mapps, “Lines,” Periodical Poets, accessed May 18, 2024,


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