 | Sermons and songs of the Christian life |  |
295
I WANT NO FLOWERS.
I want no flowers thy stone to wreathe,
Nor on thy grave to blow,
And mind me of my withered rose
That turns to dust below.
Nor on thy grave to blow,
And mind me of my withered rose
That turns to dust below.
I need no picture on my walls,
Thine image to renew,
And mock thy dear angelic smile,
And eyes of tender dew.
Thine image to renew,
And mock thy dear angelic smile,
And eyes of tender dew.
I want no spectre-form to come
In glimpses of the moon,
Nor message breathed from lips of air
That melt and vanish soon.
In glimpses of the moon,
Nor message breathed from lips of air
That melt and vanish soon.
If these be all that Mercy leaves
To soothe our great despair,
I'll only clasp thee in my dreams,
And carve thine image there.
To soothe our great despair,
I'll only clasp thee in my dreams,
And carve thine image there.
But O these shadows that we grasp
Tell with prophetic powers,
That this dim world must be our dream,
And death our waking hour.
Tell with prophetic powers,
That this dim world must be our dream,
And death our waking hour.
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