It is not in the day of revelry,
When that the cup of joy is bright and sweet,
And the fresh blossoms spring beneath our feet,
That we reflect on that, where yet must be
Our rock of hope and trust—eternity.
But let the weeds of care, the thorns of strife,
Rise in their darkness o'er our path of life;
Then the pale mourner looks beyond the tomb.
There are some flowers, whose breathings of perfume
Are shed in the night season; so the heart
Yields forth the fragrance of its better part,
When sinks its summer sunlight into gloom:
Most holy in the shadowy hour is given
The soul's best incense, which springs up to heaven.