 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
213
THE FOREST FLOWER.
Who art thou, little forest gem,
Set shining on thy slender stem,
So lone, and yet so fair;
Like some sweet censer, giving out,
To cloud and sun, for rain and drought,
Thine odors to be thrown about
Upon the desert air?
Set shining on thy slender stem,
So lone, and yet so fair;
Like some sweet censer, giving out,
To cloud and sun, for rain and drought,
Thine odors to be thrown about
Upon the desert air?
Thou look'st like one the tempest's breath
Might in a moment shake to death;
And hence thy ruins brush!
Or, this proud tree against thy head
Might hurl a nut, to strike thee dead;
And helpless, to thine earthy bed,
Its envied rival crush!
Might in a moment shake to death;
And hence thy ruins brush!
Or, this proud tree against thy head
Might hurl a nut, to strike thee dead;
And helpless, to thine earthy bed,
Its envied rival crush!
And still, thou art as void of fear,
As if thou wert an empress here;
Yet modest as a saint;
In heart, as single, undefiled
And simple as a little child;
With beauty new, and bright, and wild,
That art could never paint.
As if thou wert an empress here;
Yet modest as a saint;
In heart, as single, undefiled
And simple as a little child;
With beauty new, and bright, and wild,
That art could never paint.
But, wherefore didst thou thus seclude
Thy loveliness in solitude,
To human vision lost;
Had not my bold, erratic feet,
To bear me to thy deep retreat,
Through vines that stray, and boughs that meet,
The turf untrodden crossed?
Thy loveliness in solitude,
To human vision lost;
214
To bear me to thy deep retreat,
Through vines that stray, and boughs that meet,
The turf untrodden crossed?
Sweet eremite! I'll tell thee why:
It was to please thine Author's eye!
Thou thus art lone and fair
To praise the Power who made thee so;
For pure to him thy petals blow,
And up to him thine odors go,
Though borne on desert air!
It was to please thine Author's eye!
Thou thus art lone and fair
To praise the Power who made thee so;
For pure to him thy petals blow,
And up to him thine odors go,
Though borne on desert air!
Fair unbaptized! I name thee, hence,
A Spirit's clear address to sense,
By this bright symbol made!
Thou art a clothed, embodied thought,
Which thy Creator's mind hath wrought,
And from that fount of glory brought,
In thy light form conveyed!
A Spirit's clear address to sense,
By this bright symbol made!
Thou art a clothed, embodied thought,
Which thy Creator's mind hath wrought,
And from that fount of glory brought,
In thy light form conveyed!
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |