A Hymn

Thy bounty is a crystal well

Where all the world may drink.

We bring bright cups, and can not tell

What waits us at the brink.

One quaffs rich draughts of joy; and one,

Lifting his strong arm high,

Some dear pledge shouting to the sun,

Drains sorrow's chalice dry.

And one, wreathing his bowl for sleep,

Quaffs years of bitter breath;

And one, hope's beaker dipping deep,

Tastes the wide seas of death.

Yet crystal clear the waters rise

From infinite realms of rest;

Each cup mirrors the glowing skies,

And every drop is blest.