 | The poems of Maria Lowell |  |
23
THE MORNING-GLORY
We wreathed about our darling's head the morning-glory bright;
Her little face looked out beneath, so full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise, that we could only say
She is the morning-glory bright, and her poor types are they.
Her little face looked out beneath, so full of life and light,
So lit as with a sunrise, that we could only say
She is the morning-glory bright, and her poor types are they.
So always from that happy time we called her by that name,
And very fitting did it seem, for sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle-bars she'd smile to catch the first faint ray,
As from the trellis smiles the flower, and opens to the day.
And very fitting did it seem, for sure as morning came,
Behind her cradle-bars she'd smile to catch the first faint ray,
As from the trellis smiles the flower, and opens to the day.
But not so beautiful they rear their airy cups of blue,
As turned her sweet eyes to the light, brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms, whose outstretched plea called all hearts to her own.
As turned her sweet eyes to the light, brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
And not so close their tendrils fine round their supports are thrown,
As those dear arms, whose outstretched plea called all hearts to her own.
We used to think how she had come, even as comes the flower,
The last and perfect added gift, to crown Love's morning hour;
And how in her was imaged forth the love we could not say,
As on the little dew-drops round shines back the heart of day.
The last and perfect added gift, to crown Love's morning hour;
And how in her was imaged forth the love we could not say,
As on the little dew-drops round shines back the heart of day.
24
We never could have thought, O God! that she would wither up
Almost before the day was done, like the morning-glory's cup;
We never could have thought that she would bow her noble head,
Till she lay stretched before our sight, withered, and cold, and dead.
Almost before the day was done, like the morning-glory's cup;
We never could have thought that she would bow her noble head,
Till she lay stretched before our sight, withered, and cold, and dead.
The morning-glory's blossoming will soon be coming round,
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves upspringing from the ground,
The tender things the winter killed, renew again their birth,
But the glory of our morning has passed away from earth.
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves upspringing from the ground,
The tender things the winter killed, renew again their birth,
But the glory of our morning has passed away from earth.
In vain, O Earth! our aching eyes stretch over thy green plain,
Too harsh thy dews, too cold thine air, her spirit to detain;
But in the groves of Paradise, full surely we shall see
Our morning-glory beautiful twine round our dear Lord's knee.
Too harsh thy dews, too cold thine air, her spirit to detain;
But in the groves of Paradise, full surely we shall see
Our morning-glory beautiful twine round our dear Lord's knee.
| The poems of Maria Lowell | |