 | English Roses |  |
TO MAUDE.
Maude,
Nature lent thee,
Beauty meant thee
To be very true and brave,
Not a bright and jewelled fraud
Blown by every wind and wave
Of the Mode, through gilded glooms—
Even in ducal drawing-rooms.
Surely thou
Hast a soul of better stuff
Than a mantle or a muff,
Or the pearls upon thy brow?
Nature lent thee,
Beauty meant thee
To be very true and brave,
Not a bright and jewelled fraud
Blown by every wind and wave
Of the Mode, through gilded glooms—
Even in ducal drawing-rooms.
Surely thou
Hast a soul of better stuff
43
Or the pearls upon thy brow?
Life
Is no sonnet,
Nor a bonnet
Fashioned in the richest way;
But it knows the altar knife,
And through sorrows learns to pray
Is to be in perfect truth
And retain perpetual youth.
Heaven is thine,
Not a thing of utter chance
But a due inheritance,
And to make this earth Divine.
Is no sonnet,
Nor a bonnet
Fashioned in the richest way;
But it knows the altar knife,
And through sorrows learns to pray
Is to be in perfect truth
And retain perpetual youth.
Heaven is thine,
Not a thing of utter chance
But a due inheritance,
And to make this earth Divine.
Love
In its fulness
Lights the dulness,
Which were else our petty part;
Not the fitting of a glove,
Nor the follies of the mart;
In the broidered cuff or cape,
Soul and all may thus escape.
Time is more,
Than the passion of an hour
Or the flushing of a flower,
With eternity in store.
In its fulness
Lights the dulness,
Which were else our petty part;
Not the fitting of a glove,
Nor the follies of the mart;
In the broidered cuff or cape,
Soul and all may thus escape.
Time is more,
Than the passion of an hour
Or the flushing of a flower,
With eternity in store.
Maude,
Life is living
Just by giving
All we are and all we have,
With a mind above the gawd
That can only deck a grave;
Dare to be thyself, and turn
From the lights that downward burn.
Do the thing
That is worthy, to the close;
Till it orbs a perfect rose—
Though by daily suffering.
Life is living
Just by giving
All we are and all we have,
With a mind above the gawd
That can only deck a grave;
Dare to be thyself, and turn
From the lights that downward burn.
Do the thing
That is worthy, to the close;
Till it orbs a perfect rose—
Though by daily suffering.
| English Roses | |