![]() | The bird and the bell, with other poems | ![]() |
22
LXIII.
The seeds are planted, and the spring is near.Ages of blight are but a fleeting frost.
Truth circles into truth. Each mote is dear
To God. No drop of ocean e'er is lost,
No leaf forever dry and tempest-tossed.
Life centres deathless underneath decay,
And no true word or deed can ever pass away.
![]() | The bird and the bell, with other poems | ![]() |