 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
A SPRINGTIDE SUNDAY.
They pass before my window, young and old,Along the street, with Sabbath talk and dress:
Infant in arms its mother's heart doth bless,
That blessing ever new, yet never old!
The father walks beside; the youth doth press
His sweetheart's hand, and dreams of happiness;
The children sport; and life with its sweet stress
Constrains man's heart, like the flowers, to unfold.
God bless them all, and “grant their honest wills,
Which seasons comfort!” Tho' my heart be lone,
Yet from the fulness of their joy it fills
Itself, and makes their happiness its own.
'Tis selfishness which dries up all and kills;
Love strikes the rock, the living waters run!
| Stones from The Quarry | |