ALWAYS pointing upward, Millie; 

When a robe of snow 

Rests upon the slopes and meadows 

Lying far below, 

Or when summer sunsets, glowing, 

Touch the vane with fire, 

Or when bitter blasts are blowing, 

Upward points the spire. 

When the clouds are dark with thunder, 

Still it points above, 

Upward to the highest Heaven, 

And the home of love; 

While we toil, and faint, and sorrow, 

Still it seems to tell, 

Mutely, of a brighter morrow 

When all will be well. 

Always pointing upward, Millie, 

To the world of light! 

Lift the head, and raise the spirit 

To that highest height; 

Aching hearts may learn, in praising, 

Love and fond desire, 

Weary eyes grow bright by gazing 

Up, above the spire.