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My psalm.

I Mourn no more my vanished years:
     Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,
     My heart is young again.

The west-winds blow, and, singing low,
     I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
     Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind
     I look in hope or fear;
But, grateful, take the good I find,
     The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,
     To harvest weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God's hand
     Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
     Aside the toiling oar;
The angel sought so far away
     I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring may never play
     Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
     Blow through the autumn morn;

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