So long my life has followed no control
      But mine own impulse; now, I pray thee, bend
      My will to thine, and so, unhindered, tend
    My soul’s wild garden.  I have laid the whole
      Bare to thy sowing; and life’s precious wine
      Is of thy pouring, and thy way is mine.

Song

    Where is the waiting-time? 
      Where are the fears? 
    Gone with the winter’s rime,
      The bygone years.

    O’er life’s plain, lone and vast,
      Slow treads the morn,
    Night shades have moved and passed,
      Joy’s day is born.

THE END.