Poems (Ford)/The Passing Days
THE PASSING DAYS.
How swift and noiseless, on viewless pinions,
The sunny hours of life flit past;
The priceless moments drift by as idly
As falling leaves in the autumn blast.
The sunny hours of life flit past;
The priceless moments drift by as idly
As falling leaves in the autumn blast.
We turn aside from life's toils and duties
To mourn the hours forever gone;
We let the present glide unheeded,
And sigh for days that may never dawn.
To mourn the hours forever gone;
We let the present glide unheeded,
And sigh for days that may never dawn.
We vainly dream of some bright ideal,
Some Spirit-Eden of light and bloom,
To draw the soul from the boundless real
That must await it beyond the tomb.
Some Spirit-Eden of light and bloom,
To draw the soul from the boundless real
That must await it beyond the tomb.
He from whose breath leaps the passing ages,
Who bids them onward forever roll,
Alone can answer the spirit-cravings
That ever spring in the deathless soul.
Who bids them onward forever roll,
Alone can answer the spirit-cravings
That ever spring in the deathless soul.
Oh, may we grasp at the fleeting moments,
And make each day, as He bids it come,
A golden round in life's upward ladder,
To lift our footsteps the nearer home.
And make each day, as He bids it come,
A golden round in life's upward ladder,
To lift our footsteps the nearer home.
Life here should be a harmonious poem,
Whose breathing numbers could never die—
A song of praise, on whose strains melodious
The soul might soar to its home on high.
Whose breathing numbers could never die—
A song of praise, on whose strains melodious
The soul might soar to its home on high.
If no harsh note mars its mellow music,
No jarring discord of hate or wrong
Disturbs the flow of the magic numbers
That sweetly blend in that deathless song,—
No jarring discord of hate or wrong
Disturbs the flow of the magic numbers
That sweetly blend in that deathless song,—
Then, when our life-hymn at last is finished,
When sleeps the clay in its kindred sod,
Rejoicing angels shall chant its anthem
Before the throne of the Author—God.
When sleeps the clay in its kindred sod,
Rejoicing angels shall chant its anthem
Before the throne of the Author—God.