I love yon pale blue sky; it is the floor
Of that glad home where I shall short­ly be;
A home from which I shall go out no more;
From toil and grief and va­ni­ty set free.

I gaze up­on yon ev­er­last­ing arch,
Up which the bright stars wan­der, as they shine;
And as I mark them in their night­ly march,
I think how soon that jour­ney shall be mine!

Yon sil­ver drift of si­lent cloud, far up
In the still heav’n—through you my path­way lies:
Yon rug­ged mount­ain peak—how soon your top
Shall I be­hold be­neath me, as I rise!

Not many more of life’s slow pac­ing hours,
Shaded with sor­row’s me­lan­cho­ly hue—
Oh, what a glad as­cend­ing shall be ours,
Oh, what a path­way up yon star­ry blue!

A jour­ney like Eli­jah’s, swift and bright,
Caught gent­ly up­ward to an ear­ly crown,
In Hea­ven’s own cha­ri­ot of all-blaz­ing light,
With death un­tast­ed and the grave un­known.