 | THE VINE. Water-drops |  |
THE VINE.
14. THE VINE.
The vine hath beauty rare,
We train its tender shoot,
We twine it round the trellis fair,
And praise its fragrant fruit,—
Yet there's a secret vein
Of poison near its bower,
And he will find it to his pain
Who tampers with its power.
So, from life's earliest morn,
While we like shadows pass,
Beneath the rose-cup lurks the thorn,
The adder in the grass,—
Be ours the lore of Heaven,
Clear mind and cloudless view,
To share the Eden it hath given,
And shun the serpent too.
We train its tender shoot,
We twine it round the trellis fair,
And praise its fragrant fruit,—
Yet there's a secret vein
Of poison near its bower,
And he will find it to his pain
Who tampers with its power.
So, from life's earliest morn,
While we like shadows pass,
Beneath the rose-cup lurks the thorn,
The adder in the grass,—
Be ours the lore of Heaven,
Clear mind and cloudless view,
To share the Eden it hath given,
And shun the serpent too.
| THE VINE. Water-drops | |