[Boston—Saturday, 3 February 1877]
Saturday stayed in all day. A lovely day it was out of doors, like Spring and the colors over the bay at sunset were like one great opal.
“Whither are ye Vanished?” Macbeth
Hour by hour the swift days fly,
Day by day, the years go by;
Through the gladness of our home,
Light, uncounted, footsteps roam.
Voices of the future time
Voices from an unknown clime,
Whisper us in tenderness,
Bless us in their blessedness.
From the walls I hear them tell
Of a past which knew their spell,
Round the table see them all
And hear the accordent voices fall;
Where the image once hath been
There the vision still is seen!
Bending down in tenderness
To bless us with their blessedness.
We call them of the past, but they
Forever beckon us away,
Into their future born of song
Where love, and truth and faith belong,
Where life, the passion of the Soul
Advances as the planets roll,
Whence they reach out in tenderness
Drawing us toward their blessedness.
