I mourn no more my vanished years; 
  Beneath a tender rain,
An April rain of smiles and tears,
  My heart is young again.

The west-winds blow, and, singing low,
  I hear the glad streams run;
The windows of my soul I throw
  Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind
  I look in hope or fear;
But, grateful, take the good I find,
  The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,
  To harvest weed and tare;
The manna dropping from God's hand
  Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay
  Aside the toiling oar;
The angel sought so far away
  I welcome at my door.

The airs of spring my never play
  Among the ripening corn,
Nor freshness of the flowers of May
  Blow through the autumn morn;

Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look
  Through fringed lids to heaven,

 And the pale aster in the brook
  Shall see its image given; -

The woods shall wear their robes of praise,
  The south-wind softly sigh,
And sweet, calm  days in golden haze
  Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word
  Rebuke an age of wrong;
The graven flowers that wreathe the sword
  Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall learn to heal, -
  To build as to destroy;
Nor less my heart for others feel
  That I the more enjoy.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds
  To give or to withhold,
And knoweth more of all my needs
  Than all my prayers have told!

Enough that blessings undeserved
  Have marked my erring track;
That wheresoe'er my feet have swerved,
  His chastening turned me back;

 That more and more a Providence
  Of love is understood,
Making the springs of time and sense
  Sweet with eternal good; -

That death seems but a covered way
  Which opens into light,
Wherein no blinded child can stray
  Beyond the Father's sight;

That care and trial at last,
  Through Memory's sunset air,
Like mountain-ranges overpast,
  In purple distance fair;

That all the jarring notes of life
  Seem blending in a psalm,
And all the angles of its strife
  Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,
  And so the west-winds play;
And all the windows of my heart
  I open to the day.

https://www.history.com/topics/immigration/history-of-quakerism#section_2