Sunny days of the autumn,
Days that shall make me whole,
When a balm for wounds that were bleeding
Drops silently on the soul!

Now seem the hours to be brooding
In still, beneficent rest,
And with a quieter motion
Heaves now the laboring breast.

To rest from the world's endeavor,
To build on the soul's deep base--
That is my only craving,
In the stillness of love to gaze.

O'er the hills, through the dales I wander,
Where the shy sweet streamlets call,
Following each clear sunbeam,
Whether scorching or kind it fall.

There where the leaves are turning,
I harken with reverent ear;
All that is growing or dying,
Fading or blooming, I hear.

Blissful I learn my lesson--
How through the world's wide sweep
Matter and spirit together
Their concord eternal keep.

What blows in the rustling forest,
Takes life from the sun and rain,
Is a symbol of truth immortal
To the soul that can read it plain.

Each tiniest plant that blossoms
With the perfume of its birth
Holds in its cup the secret
Of the whole mysterious earth.

It looks down from the cliffs in silence,
Speaks in the waves' long swell--
But all its wonderful meaning
The poet alone can tell.