Day By Day

EVERY day has its dawn, Its soft and silent eve, Its noontide hours of bliss or bale;-- Why should we grieve? Why do we heap huge mounds of years Before us and behind, And scorn the little days that pass Like angels on the wind? Each turning round a small sweet face As beautiful as near; Because it is so small a face We will not see it clear: We will not clasp it as it flies, And kiss its lips and brow: We will not bathe our wearied souls In its delicious Now. And so it turns from us, and goes Away in sad disdain: Though we would give our lives for it, It never comes again. Yet, every day has its dawn, Its noontide and its eve: Live while we live, giving God thanks-- He will not let us grieve.