Poems (Bushnell)/The Year's Goal

by Frances Louisa Bushnell

XXXI THE YEAR'S GOAL

Rest thee awhile to-night, my soul,
 Turn from the dusty road aside,
Nor think to look beyond the goal
 Where dim to-morrows hide.

Sweet is this wayside resting-place
 Upon the margin of the year;
Avail thee, then, of pilgrim grace
 And rest a little here.

Lay down thy burden and thy staff,
 Breathe deep and free thee of the past,
Stoop to the springs of time and quaff
 These moments while they last.

Feel the fresh wind that comes from yon,
 Blown from a neighboring land unknown;
Yet haste thee not, but wait upon
 A morrow not thine own.

Thank God he gives no endless way,
 But lays his hand across the road,
Calls many a halt, and bids thee stay
 And rest thee of thy load.

He is too full of grace to deal
 A breathless road that never swerves;
But all things turn and pause and wheel,
 In restful, joyful curves.

Days end and turn where nights begin;
 The months whirl round through snow and glow,
And lay their lesser rings within
 The year's encircling flow.

And through these phases manifold,
 Round its glad circuit wings the year;
And links the old, the new, the old,
 Within its clasping sphere.

And half we feel the sweep of time
 Catch up the years and hurry by;
But thought falls back, too faint to climb
 The circles of the sky.

Dream, if thou wilt, of outmost reach,
 The motion of sublimer rounds,
The flight of hopes surpassing speech
 And life that knows no bounds;

But 'mid these orbits dim and great,
 Lose not, my soul, the year's embrace,
Its closeness to thy low estate,
 Its needful resting-place.