From Sunset Ridge :: :: University of Virginia Library

If I were a titled princess, this blessèd Palm-Sunday morn,
I 'd not sit in this little carriage, with varnish and paint forlorn;
Nor wear this old cloak and bonnet, kept carefully for the day:
There should be no best in my wardrobe; I 'd go in best things alway.

And this Yankee should never drive me, this saucy son of the whip,
Who sits in a cart on week-days, a leather belt on his hip;
Nor this small horse of smaller breeding, that starts at each foolish fright:
I 'd borrow the Sun's proud coursers, and sweep through the streets like light.

This dust should not trouble my vision, nor smart in my tingling breast;
With dewy drops rosy scattered, the air itself should be blest;

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And these people that stare so wanly from their windows empty of sky
Should glow like a sun-touched landscape with the joy of my riding by.

For you see, I myself should bless them; no committee should scan their need:
I 'd visit their doleful dwellings, my help should be help indeed;
I 'd bring them to true heart-wishes, not only to clothes and bread;
I 'd pull down these toppling houses, and build pretty cots instead.

And this were my April fooling, when they came from this morning's church,—
In vain for their rags and cobwebs, and joyless beds, should they search:
All waving with snowy curtains their newly stained walls should be;
And their scores paid up at all dealers, such help should they claim from me.

And these little ones bare and ragged, that play with the Sunday's palms,
They should answer with wide-mouthed wonder, I 'd give them such golden alms;
And these crying babies some angel should touch with a waving bough,

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Till they smiled on their mothers' bosoms, where they hang so heavily now.

But not such poor cheap-bought comforts, not blessings that come for pelf,—
The dearest and costliest blessing, I 'd carry it in myself.
My smile should be meed for heroes, my lips draw such tender breath
That a little strain of my music should comfort the pangs of death.

Such a heart I 'd bear in my bosom, that, threading the crowded streets,
My face should shed joy unlooked for on every poor soul one meets;
And such wisdom should crown my forehead, that, coming where counsels stand,
I should carry the thoughts of justice, and 'stablish the weal of the land.

The servants that waited on me should so prize the gracious task,
No wage-gold should bring or bind them, my presence were all to ask;
And they who should leave my service, with sorrowful feet and slow
Out-lengthening a dear remembrance, from my sight and sound should go.

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For a church I 'd have such a temple as wonders the world in Rome,
With a thousand sunny corners where angels might make their home:
I 'd not have the prayers in Latin, and the doctrine far out of reach,
But the homely to help the humble, like the Fisher of old should preach.

For myself I would keep no gewgaws, no trumpery cloth of gold,
No stick of a Stick in Waiting for gaping fools to behold:
Friends should gather where'er I wandered, hearts should build me a blood-red throne;
'T is with loving the world and with blessing I 'd win it to be my own.

Yet I 'd keep the rich guerdon of beauty, and youth should but mellow down
To a fuller, maturer feeling, that knowledge and duties crown;
And the tireless flow of spirits, with the sober delight of art,
And some subtle, saintly secret, to hold from the world apart.

If thy wealth be loving and giving, the good God is over all

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To bless the world with thy blessing,—no prayer doth unheeded fall.
Gather back thy joys in thy bosom this blessèd Palm-Sunday morn,
For we have the grace that we ask for; thou 'rt better than princess born.