THE SENSITIVE PLANT.
Recoiling from the touch
Of him who seeks too much,
A dainty thing thou art,
Whose sweetness seems a part
Of all that round thee grows;
More subtle than the rose,
Thy faint perfume scarce fills
The lambent air, yet thrills
Like nectar, till one feels
Thy shyness half conceals
A deeper ecstacy
Than e'er he dreamed to be.
The islands of the sea
That richly laden be
With redolence—not they,
Nor yet the far Cathay,
Nor orange orchard's bloom,
Surpass thy sweet perfume:
A type of some fine soul
Thou seem'st, that from the whole
Rude world doth safely keep
Its inmost secret deep,
And yet, that hath the power
To touch us as a flower.
When morning breaks upon the sight,
Where are the fears that came at night,
That whispered danger and dispraise,
That with a thousand vague dismays
Our resolution put to flight?
Ah! then these aliens to the light,
As seized upon by nameless fright,
Depart without adieus, delays,
When morning breaks!
And what is life with bloom and blight,
With contest over wrong and right?
A night where fear the sceptre sways,
A tyrant that prescribes and slays;
But lo! he flees, a trembling wight,
When morning breaks.
The sun, like a Moslem prophet,
His turban has unfurled;
And lo! it floats as a banner
Across the western world.
A gracious picture, clad in living green,
Enwrought with gold, and broidered thick with flowers,
A woman, strong in woman's noblest powers,
Who holds the sceptre of a fearless queen,
And there is love in her blue eyes, I ween,-
The love that keeps a watch from its own towers,
And on her lips the purpose that endowers
Her royal children with her royal sheen!
Above her floats a gonfalon, unfurled
That men may see her colors from afar,
And read therein her message to the world.
Steadfast she stands, be it in peace or war,
And falters not though heavy clouds be hurled
Athwart the glory of her guiding star.
How shall I live, beloved, since the space
That lies between two worlds divides us twain,
Since I am left on earth with every stain,
And thou art pure enough to see God's face?
How can I linger on in this dark place,
Borne down with all this heavy load of pain,
When thou canst never come to me again,
Or still my yearning through thy tender grace?
But one thing yet remains for me to do:
Through sorrow I shall grow so near to thee
That God upon my spirit too will smile,
And to thy blessed leading prove so true
That I shall come in His good time to see
How He hath watched between us all the while.
-Florence L. Snow.
How good it was beneath the mounting morn
To loiter past the hazel thicket where
The baby nuts in such green growth were born,
And hid away with such especial care!
And then to lean against the ancient elm
That always watched my journeys to and fro,
And, looking upward, find the fairy realm
That only birds and children ever know!
Or, stretched full length upon the mossy ground,
Where fringing fern so tenderly uncurled,
How dear it was to catch the elfin sound
That sometimes echoes from the under-world,
And learn the secrets of the quiet nook
So fondly cherished by the faithful brook!
"He is a mal-formed giant."-John Burroughs. "A mal-formed giant"! Let us rather say That we are dwarfs who barely touch the knee Of this great-passioned man, who dares to free Himself from shackles, choosing his own way To make us pygmies feel his mighty sway:
And if on level with his eyes we'd be,
We first must reach his heart, then we may see From such rare height the Power he doth obey. Or say he is a mountain-peak, his head
Upreared beyond the line of wreathed mist, Where lowland dwellers may sometime be led O'er rocky steeps, through many a turn and twist, To find their native valleys wide outspread, Into strange beauty by the ether kissed.
A woman's hand, in jewels dressed,
Or wearied by life's toilsome quest,-
Though supple, dimpled, clinging, bold,
Though wrinkled, trembling, cringing, old,-
Is ever strong and ever blessed.
Rich stores of tenderness confessed,
Sweet welcomes lingering in the breast,
Love, sympathy, and hope enfold
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