The Rainbow.
By H. P. Nichols
"What is the rainbow, mother dear,
With many-colored light?
Have the clouds parted just to show
The floor of heaven so bright?
"Or is it wings of angels pure
That touch along the sky?
And do they come that we may see
How fair is all on high?
"Or, mother, on that shining arch
Do spirits rise above?
And on that bended bow ascend
Where all is light and love?
"How beautiful must be that road!
Why should we call those back,
Who travel to the better land
On such a sunny track?
"Why did you weep when brother died?
Did you not know that he
On that delightful path must tread,
Ere he in heaven could be?"
"My dearest child, we cannot know,
Or trace the spirit's flight,
For sin and sorrow draw their veil
Across our mortal sight.
"If--as the rainbow takes its hues
Of beauty from the sun--
We strive to live like Christ our Lord,
The meek and holy One,--
"Then shall we dwell in Heaven's clear day,
Which knows nor night nor moon,
For, ever, from the Father's throne
Beams high and cloudless noon."