The day is ebbing, shadows fall,
While twilite deepens nite birds call
The works of mortals fade away;
In quiet care a sorrow lay;
Soothing evening breezes whisper,
Telling of forgotten lands-
Softly speak of Eden's Gardens,
And of earth's dear no-man lands.
Murmur of sea island countries,
Drowsy birds, faint scents of flowers,
Silver moons and star lit meadows-
Tell of slow, enchantful hours.
But the vision swiftly changes
Northland wastes and solitude
In their place lied coldly calling ,
Luring your adventurous mood...
Beckoning to unclimbed mountains,
Treacherous glaciers, unexplored,
Ice and rivers, frozen fountains,
Long from which Aurora soared.
But the zephyr now has ended,
In the midst of Yukon flats
Come, regretful, to the present-
Just remember where you're at.
But in future desolation
When your thoughts are glum and sour,
Think back thru your "Syncopation"
To the zephyr of this hour.
And when wind and winter harden
All the leafless, loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden--
It will bid you understand.
And the moral of the story-
(For it has one as all should)
Is: "When all are shorn of Glory--
God alone will choose the good."
But let's leave that as it stood...
For from here, where ere you wander,
Whether it be near or far,
Without stopping long to ponder--
Just be thankful where you are.
