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C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Frances Louisa Bushnell (1834–1899)


MY heart gives thanks for yonder hill,

That makes this valley safe and still;

That shuts from sight my onward way

And sets a limit to my day;

That keeps my thoughts, so tired and weak,

From seeking what they should not seek.

On that fair bound across the west

My eyes find pasturage and rest,

And of its dewy stillness drink,

As do the stars upon its brink;

It shields me from the days to come,

And makes the present hour my home.

Deeper will be my rest to-night

For this near calmness of the height;

Its steadfast boundary will keep

My harbored spirit while I sleep.

Yet somewhere on its wooded sides

To-morrow’s onward pathway hides,

And I shall wake at early morn,

To find a world beyond, new-born.

I thank thee, Lord, that thou dost lay

These near horizons on my way.

If I could all my journey see,

There were no charm of mystery,

No veilèd grief, no changes sweet,

No restful sense of tasks complete.

I thank thee for the hills, the night,

For every barrier to my sight;

For every turn that blinds my eyes

To coming pain or glad surprise;

For every bound thou settest nigh,

To make me look more near, more high;

For mysteries too great to know:

For everything thou dost not show.

Upon thy limits rests my heart;

Its safe Horizon, Lord, thou art!