The Journey

This life, my dear, is a varied journey
And most of its ways are queer,
But those who laugh through its work and wonder
Will find that it holds good cheer;
And whether we laugh or languish
And whether we sigh or sing,
I am sure that still
There is good for ill
And the flash of an angel wing!

The world, my dear, and the folk that use it
Care naught for our waste or worth;
The smile and sorrow of hope and hurry
Are small to the brave old earth;
And whether with pain or pleasure
And whether with smiles or tears,
There is something glad
For the dark and sad,
And we go to the blessed years.

The deeds, my dear, that we faint in doing,
The dreams that we catch and cherish,
To those that walk in the ways beside us
Are naught when they fall and perish;
But whether they fail or triumph
And whether the rue or rose,
To the hearts that hold
They are more than gold
Till the years of the gods unclose.

It's up, my dear, with the purple morning,
And death to the heart's annoy;
No stop nor stay on the endless journey
To rest on the hills of joy!
And whether the paths are easy
And whether the roads are long,
There is rapture still
For the ache and ill,
As we wander the ways with song!

Yes, life, my dear, is a varied journey
And most of its ways are queer,
But those who laugh as they wander onward
Will find that it holds good cheer;
And whether we laugh or languish
And whether we sigh or sing,
I am sure that still
There is good for ill
And the flash of an angel wing!