Sing, ye winds, and sing, ye waters,
May the music of your song
Silence all the dark forebodings
That have plagued the world too long;
He who made your voices tuneful
Comes to right the wrong.
Warble on, ye feathered songsters,
Lift your praises loud and high,
Merry lark, and thrush, and blackbird,
In the grove and in the sky
Make your music, shame our dumbness,
Till we make reply.
Children's laughter is a music
Flowing from a hidden spring,
Which, though men misdoubt its virtue,
Well is worth discovering;
Slowly dies the heart that knows not
How to laugh and sing.
Hark, a cradle-song! the Singer
Is the Heart of God Most High;
All sweet voices are the echoes
That in varied tones reply
To that Voice which through the ages
Sings earth's lullaby.
Oftentimes a sleepless infant
For a season frets and cries:
All at once an unseen finger
Curtains up the little eyes.
So the cradled child He nurses
God will tranquillise.
His the all-enfolding Presence;
Oh, what tutelage it brings
To the little lives that ripen
'Neath the shelter of its wings;
God's delays are no denials,
As He waits He sings!
They alone are seers and singers
Who invalidate despair
By the lofty hopes they cherish,
By the gallant deeds they dare,
By the ceaseless aspirations
Of a life of prayer.
Brothers, sisters, lift your voices,
May the rapture of your song
Put to flight the sad misgivings
That have vexed the world too long;
God would have us share the triumph
That shall right the wrong.