Sweet, sweet, sweet! O skies, serene and blue, That shut the velvet pastures in, that fold the mountain's crest! Sweet, sweet, sweet! What of the clouds ye knew? The vessels ride a golden tide, upon a sea at rest.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! Who prates of care and pain? Who says that life is sorrowful? O life so glad, so fleet! Ah! he who lives the noblest life finds life the noblest gain, The tears of pain a tender rain to make its waters sweet.
Sweet, sweet, sweet! O happy world that is! Dear heart, I hear across the fields my mateling pipe and call Sweet, sweet, sweet! O world so full of bliss, For life is love, the world is love, and love is over all!
I shot an arrow into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For, so swiftly it flew, the sight Could not follow it in its flight.
I breathed a song into the air, It fell to earth, I knew not where; For who has sight so keen and strong, That it can follow the flight of song?
Long, long afterward, in an oak I found the arrow, still unbroke; And the song, from beginning to end, I found again in the heart of a friend.
It was fifty years ago, In the pleasant month of May, In the beautiful Pays de Vaud, A child in its cradle lay.
And Nature, the old nurse, took The child upon her knee, Saying: "Here is a story-book Thy Father has written for thee."
"Come, wander with me," she said, "Into regions yet untrod; And read what is still unread In the manuscripts of God."
And he wandered away and away With Nature, the dear old nurse, Who sang to him night and day The rhymes of the universe.
And whenever the way seemed long, Or his heart began to fail, She would sing a more wonderful song, Or tell a more marvelous tale.
So she keeps him still a child, And will not let him go, Though at times his heart beats wild For the beautiful Pays de Vaud;
Though at times he hears in his dreams The Ranz des Vaches of old, And the rush of mountain streams From glaciers clear and cold;
And the mother at home says, "Hark! For his voice I listen and yearn; It is growing late and dark, And my boy does not return!"
[17] Copyrighted by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Reprinted by permission of the publishers.
Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.