html.skin-theme-clientpref-night @media(prefers-color-scheme:dark){html.skin-theme-clientpref-os }'Tis evening; the pale moon is gleaming
Far up in the starry sky;
And I, in the darkness am dreaming,
Of years that have flitted by.
I sit with my weary hands folded,
And gaze at the flames as they glow;
'Till I fancy the embers are moulded,
In forms that I loved long ago.
Fair memory points to the hours,
That knew not of sorrow and strife;
When palm trees, and fountains and flowers,
Made goodly the scenes of my life.
But oh! there's an end to life's Elim,
For sorrow must come to us all;
The palm and the flowers will wither,
The fountains will turn into gall.
But hope with pearly white fingers,
Points away to the land of the blest;
And fondly my sad heart lingers,
On the promise of future rest.
Ere long I shall enter the portals,
Where God in His fullness is known;
And join with star-crowned immortals,
In worship before His throne.
March 9, 1868.