The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
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To Laura, two Years of Age.—N. P. Willis.
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 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
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To Laura, two Years of Age.—N. P. Willis.
Bright be the skies that cover thee,
Child of the sunny brow—
Bright as the dream flung over thee
By all that meets thee now.
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's,
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.
Child of the sunny brow—
Bright as the dream flung over thee
By all that meets thee now.
Thy heart is beating joyously,
Thy voice is like a bird's,
And sweetly breaks the melody
Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.
I would that thou might'st ever be
As beautiful as now,—
That Time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow,—
I would life were “all poetry,”
To gentle measure set,
That nought but chastened melody
Might stain thine eye of jet—
Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.
As beautiful as now,—
That Time might ever leave as free
Thy yet unwritten brow,—
I would life were “all poetry,”
To gentle measure set,
That nought but chastened melody
Might stain thine eye of jet—
Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.
I would—but deeper things than these
With woman's lot are wove,
Wrought of intenser sympathies,
And nerved by purer love.
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to Heaven.
“Her lot is on thee,” lovely child—
God keep thy spirit undefiled!
With woman's lot are wove,
Wrought of intenser sympathies,
And nerved by purer love.
By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to Heaven.
“Her lot is on thee,” lovely child—
God keep thy spirit undefiled!
I fear thy gentle loveliness,
Thy witching tone and air;
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness
May be to thee a snare.
The silver stars may purely shine,
The waters taintless flow—
But they who kneel at woman's shrine
Breathe on it as they bow—
Ye may fling back the gift again,
But the crushed flower will leave a stain.
Thy witching tone and air;
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness
May be to thee a snare.
The silver stars may purely shine,
The waters taintless flow—
But they who kneel at woman's shrine
Breathe on it as they bow—
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But the crushed flower will leave a stain.
What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?
Keep thee as thou art now?
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,
At God's pure throne to bow?
The world is but a broken reed,
And life grows early dim:
Who shall be near thee in thy need,
To lead thee up—to Him?
He, who himself was “undefiled:”
With him we trust thee, beautiful child!
Keep thee as thou art now?
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,
At God's pure throne to bow?
The world is but a broken reed,
And life grows early dim:
Who shall be near thee in thy need,
To lead thee up—to Him?
He, who himself was “undefiled:”
With him we trust thee, beautiful child!
| The American common-place book of poetry | |