 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
141
THE WHITE FLOWER.
She did not know, when she gave thee me,
How sweet a comforter thou wouldst be
To her pensive friend in the secret need,
Which the traveller feels from the tramp of steed,
The wavering coach, and a lonely hour
In a stranger group, my fair White Flower!
How sweet a comforter thou wouldst be
To her pensive friend in the secret need,
Which the traveller feels from the tramp of steed,
The wavering coach, and a lonely hour
In a stranger group, my fair White Flower!
When the rumbling sound of the wheels was heard,
And made me hasten the parting word,
She plucked thee up from thy native place,
While the soul looked full from her speaking face;
And all she felt at the long farewell,
She left for her tender flower to tell.
And made me hasten the parting word,
She plucked thee up from thy native place,
While the soul looked full from her speaking face;
And all she felt at the long farewell,
She left for her tender flower to tell.
Thou beautiful thing! 't was a holy thought,
To give me a work which my Maker wrought;
So pure and perfect, to soothe the mind,
In the rattling cage as I sit confined,
While it rolls along in the beaten track,
And my form goes on, but my heart goes back.
To give me a work which my Maker wrought;
So pure and perfect, to soothe the mind,
In the rattling cage as I sit confined,
While it rolls along in the beaten track,
And my form goes on, but my heart goes back.
I'll cast my mantle 'twixt thee and harm,
From a neighborly skirt, a hostile arm,
Or a cape astray, whose fall or brush
Thy delicate head might wound or crush;
And then, my small, but eloquent friend,
We'll sweetly commune, to my journey's end.
From a neighborly skirt, a hostile arm,
Or a cape astray, whose fall or brush
Thy delicate head might wound or crush;
And then, my small, but eloquent friend,
We'll sweetly commune, to my journey's end.
142
For He will carry me safely there,
Who made thy slenderest root his care!—
He formed the eye that delights to see,
And the soul that loves to contemplate thee,
We both are the works of his wondrous power!
In silence we'll praise him, my sweet White Flower.
Who made thy slenderest root his care!—
He formed the eye that delights to see,
And the soul that loves to contemplate thee,
We both are the works of his wondrous power!
In silence we'll praise him, my sweet White Flower.
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |