Two little souls, a boy and a girl,
⁠Wandering on to the foot of the hill.
Bushes of green and blossoms of pearl
⁠Laugh at themselves in the roadside rill.
Crossing the lane a gorgeous jay,
Bathed in the light of a fluttering ray,
Jauntily chatters, "Some day, some day!"

Two sweet souls, a man and a maid
⁠(Beechen branches twisted above),
Picking the daisies which sprinkle a glade,
⁠And trying their luck at a game of love:
"This year!" "Next year!" What do they say?
And out of the beeches the curious jay
Peeps and chuckles, "Some day, some day!"

Two old souls, and the end of the day
⁠Follows them home to the foot of the hill;
One late gleam which has wandered astray
⁠Breaks from a copse and dimples the rill.
Autumn leaves are strewing the way,
And hoarse from the larch the hungry jay
Shouts out to the night, "Some day, some day!"

Two poor souls in the dead of the night,
⁠Side by side, lie stiffened and still;
And the winter’s moon just softens her light,
⁠As it solemnly rests at the foot of the hill.
Remembering the bees and the buds and the May,
The summer gold and the autumn gray,
And the warm green lane where the beetles play,
In the crisp cold night the shivering jay
Croaks out of his dream, "Some day, some day!"

Oh! it waited all through the year to bloom,
Waited, and weathered the wind, the gloom,
⁠Pent, and folded, and shaded
Oh! it blossom’d at last for an hour, an hour,
The beautiful, beautiful sun-kiss'd flower!
⁠And at blaze of the noontide faded.

Faded, and fell in the fervid air
That had nursed its waking, and made it fair;
⁠Dead with the passion of living.
Oh! spent and lost, forever and aye!
A year of work for an hour of play!
⁠A gift withdrawn at the giving!

How shall I measure the good, the ill,
The pain of waiting, the pain of fill,
⁠Long hoping, and short fruition?
Shall I nip the buds lest they shed their flowers
In the swift, sweet warmth of meridian hours?
⁠Shall I call the shedding perdition?

No: buds must open, and flowers must blow,
So kiss them passing, and let them go,
⁠With not too heavy a sorrow;
Petals are frail of the fairest flower,
Yet the fruit at its broken heart hath power
⁠To yield new beauty to-morrow.

The day dies slowly in the western sky;
⁠The sunset splendor fades, and wan and cold
The far peaks wait the sunrise; cheerily
⁠The goat-herd calls his wanderers to the fold.
My weary soul, that fain would cease to roam,
Take comfort; evening bringeth all things home.

Homeward the swift-winged seagull takes her flight;
⁠The ebbing tide breaks softer on the sand;
The red-sailed boats draw shoreward for the night,
⁠The shadows deepen over sea and land.
Be still, my soul, thine hour shall also come;
Behold, one evening, God shall lead thee home.

Her harvests gathered and her wines distilled,
⁠And all fair robes laid by for festal spring,
The year sits down her argosies to build
⁠That shall from Orient climes sweet traffic bring.

With wistful smiles she sets them all afloat,
⁠Beneath blue skies soft veiled with gathering mist —
Like tears that rise in mother-eyes that note
⁠The dear girl-face some beckoning love has kissed —

And says: "Go forth where rarest lilies bloom!
⁠Bear spice and perfume from the nether seas!
When silent grows the winter’s crashing loom
⁠Return, with all the joy of buds and bees!"