 | A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England |  |
154
THE ROSE IN ICE.
She has a glowing heart, they say,
Though calm her seeming be;
And oft that warm heart's lovely play
Upon her cheek I see.
Though calm her seeming be;
And oft that warm heart's lovely play
Upon her cheek I see.
Her cheek is almost always pale,
And marble cold it seems,
But a soft colour trembles there
At times, in rosy gleams!
And marble cold it seems,
But a soft colour trembles there
At times, in rosy gleams!
Some sudden throb of love, or grief,
Or pity, or delight,
And lo! a flush of beauty—brief,
But passionately bright!
Or pity, or delight,
And lo! a flush of beauty—brief,
But passionately bright!
She minds me of a rose I found
In a far southern land,—
A robe of ice its blushes bound,
By winter breezes fanned.
In a far southern land,—
A robe of ice its blushes bound,
By winter breezes fanned.
155
But softly through the crystal veil
That gleamed about its form,
There came a fitful glow to tell
The flower beneath was warm!
That gleamed about its form,
There came a fitful glow to tell
The flower beneath was warm!
And thus, though cold her seeming be,
Her cheek so calmly fair,
Her spirit, struggling to be free,
Doth often tremble there!
Her cheek so calmly fair,
Her spirit, struggling to be free,
Doth often tremble there!
| A Wreath of Wild Flowers From New England | |