Dark boughs against a golden sky,
And crying of the winter wind:
And sweet it is, for hope is high,
And sad it is, for we have sinned.
Perfect is nature's every part
In sunny rest, or windy strife:
But never yet the perfect heart,
And never yet the perfect life!
Dark boughs against a golden sky,
And crying of the winter wind:
And in the cold earth we must lie,
What matter then if we have sinned?
For evermore and evermore
Shall the great river onward roll:
And ever winding streams and poor
Shall lose them in the mighty whole.