What airs outblown from ferny dells And clover-bloom and sweet brier smells.

And light is mingled with the gloom, And joy with grief; Divinest compensations come, Through thorns of judgment mercies bloom In sweet relief.

Our toil is sweet with thankfulness, Our burden is our boon; The curse of earth's gray morning is The blessing of its noon.

Love hath never known a law beyond its own sweet will.