John Greenleaf Whittier

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses read more

They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead, That all of thee we loved and cherished Has with thy summer roses perished; And left, as its young beauty fled, An ashen memory in its stead.

God gives quietness at last.

God gives quietness at last.

Press bravely onward!--not in vain
Your generous trust in human kind;
The good which bloodshed could not read more

Press bravely onward!--not in vain
Your generous trust in human kind;
The good which bloodshed could not gain
Your peaceful zeal shall find.

Somehow, not only for Christmas but all the long year through, The joy that you give to others Is the read more

Somehow, not only for Christmas but all the long year through, The joy that you give to others Is the joy that comes back to you. And the more you spend in blessing The poor and lonely and sad, The more of your heart's possessing Returns to you glad.

The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at read more

The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.