 | Forest buds, from the woods of Maine |  |
48
THE HOUSEHOLD SAINT.
Thou whose sweet presence is with me now,
Thou whose light breathing fans my brow,—
As drifts my hearts's dismantled ark
O'er life's wide ocean, so dim and dark,
Thou, oh, thou art the white-winged dove
Bringing the olive-leaves of love!
Thou whose light breathing fans my brow,—
As drifts my hearts's dismantled ark
O'er life's wide ocean, so dim and dark,
Thou, oh, thou art the white-winged dove
Bringing the olive-leaves of love!
Thine, my own, is the only eye
That never hath looked on me carelessly,—
Thine are the only lips, my bird,
Which have given me never an unkind word,
And thine is the only heart, which still
Loves on, unchanging, through good and ill.
That never hath looked on me carelessly,—
Thine are the only lips, my bird,
Which have given me never an unkind word,
And thine is the only heart, which still
Loves on, unchanging, through good and ill.
Never upon thy beaming face
Has passion or sorrow left its trace,
Never a shadow of sin or care
Dimmed the light on thy forehead fair,
For thou art as pure and from guile as free
As the shining ones who wait for thee!
Has passion or sorrow left its trace,
Never a shadow of sin or care
Dimmed the light on thy forehead fair,
For thou art as pure and from guile as free
As the shining ones who wait for thee!
49
Words of the tempter I cannot hear,
While thy sweet love-tones charm my ear,
Only prayers from my heart arise,
When I gaze in thy holy eyes,
For all things dark and sinful flee
From the presence of truth and purity.
While thy sweet love-tones charm my ear,
Only prayers from my heart arise,
When I gaze in thy holy eyes,
For all things dark and sinful flee
From the presence of truth and purity.
While I can clasp thy angel form
I can meet unshrinking, life's wildest storm,
While I can hold thy tiny hand,
Can every trial and woe withstand,
And walk at last, with untrembling breath,
Through the shadowy valley we know as death!
I can meet unshrinking, life's wildest storm,
While I can hold thy tiny hand,
Can every trial and woe withstand,
And walk at last, with untrembling breath,
Through the shadowy valley we know as death!
| Forest buds, from the woods of Maine | |