POETRY.
OHNE EAST, OHNE RAST. FLOW on, little life, flow, flow!
What if the sun gleam not in thy face, And clouds hang dark in the sky for a spaoe And bitter winds blow?
Little life, hidden life, flow, flow !
Here is a stream that runs at my feet With murmur of music, soothing and sweet. Clear in the depths of its sandy bed I can see the blue of the sky o'erhead; But further down, just a mile or more, Its singing is spent, and on before Lies a dreary waste, half-sand, half-stone, And there its waters are all but lost.
Little life, hidden life, cease to moan; The desolate place is speedily crossed. Count not the hours, nor reckon the cost : Not dead is the old glad undertone ; And sweet was the music of long ago! Flow on, little life, flow, flow !
Leave thy weeping, forget thy woe. Though heaven be high, yet God knows best; Nigher and nigher comes perfect rest; Nigher and nigher there comes to thee The azure calm of the infinite sea. Flow on, little life, flow;
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