University of Virginia Library

Search this document 

211

YOUNG POET'S PLAINT.

God, release our dying sister!
Beauteous blight hath sadly kiss'd her:
Whiter than the wild, white roses,
Famine in her face discloses
Mute submission, patience holy,
Passing fair! but passing slowly.
Though she said, “You know I'm dying,”
In her heart green trees are sighing;
Not of them hath pain bereft her,
In the city, where we left her:
“Bring,” she said, “a hedgeside blossom!”
Love shall lay it on her bosom.