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35
TO C. C.
Nay! not a “poppy,” but a wild white rose,
Pure, sweet, and tender,—clinging to the stem
Like a soft-hued and gracious diadem,—
Fresh with the wind that o'er the North Sea blows.
Rose-like the gentle spirit within thee grows
And, though surrounding folk thy life contemn,
Thou need'st not waver nor take heed of them,
If thine own heart its clear vocation knows.
Pure, sweet, and tender,—clinging to the stem
Like a soft-hued and gracious diadem,—
Fresh with the wind that o'er the North Sea blows.
Rose-like the gentle spirit within thee grows
And, though surrounding folk thy life contemn,
Thou need'st not waver nor take heed of them,
If thine own heart its clear vocation knows.
Therefore, white Northern Rose, be not afraid:
Thy mission is to gladden and to heal,
And, if thy life's true task be long delayed
And tangled boughs the rosebud's shape conceal,
It is that more than that one Northern glade
May in the end thy power and bounty feel.
Thy mission is to gladden and to heal,
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And tangled boughs the rosebud's shape conceal,
It is that more than that one Northern glade
May in the end thy power and bounty feel.
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