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The Tent
Thou springest from the ground, and may not IFrom Him who speeds thy branches high and wide;
And from the scorching sun and stormy sky
May I not too with friendly shelter hide;
There is no shade like thine to shield the poor,
From the hot scorching words that meet the ear;
The snowy, frozen flakes they must endure,
Of those whose hearts have never shed a tear;
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Shall in my verse spread wide a tempering skreen,
And when oppressed with heat his sons pass by,
With hastening feet they'll seek its arches green;
And bless the Father who has o'er them spread
A tent of verdure for their aching head.
Poem No. 698; late 1838–early 1839
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