 | English Roses |  |
MOTHER EARTH.
My Mother Earth, I prize thee best,
For I was suckled at the breast
Which bears thy children food;
And on me closed thy kindly arms
Which suffered every mood,
And unveiled to me all the charms
Of gentlest motherhood.
Nor can I flee away from love
Which lives so very near,
Betwixt the toil and tear;
It holds me up, and smiles above
Down on my foolish fear.
For I was suckled at the breast
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And on me closed thy kindly arms
Which suffered every mood,
And unveiled to me all the charms
Of gentlest motherhood.
Nor can I flee away from love
Which lives so very near,
Betwixt the toil and tear;
It holds me up, and smiles above
Down on my foolish fear.
My Mother Earth, I have no bliss
So precious as thy morning kiss,
Upon my brow and cheek;
And though thou art exceeding strong
None ever was so meek,
And thy most tender cradle song
Gives what the children seek.
I am rebellious, but I know
Thy Sweetness wraps me round
With music more than sound;
And every place I tread below,
Is home and heavenly ground.
So precious as thy morning kiss,
Upon my brow and cheek;
And though thou art exceeding strong
None ever was so meek,
And thy most tender cradle song
Gives what the children seek.
I am rebellious, but I know
Thy Sweetness wraps me round
With music more than sound;
And every place I tread below,
Is home and heavenly ground.
My Mother Earth, thou dost abide
With me, whatever fate betide;
And at thy bosom still
I hang, an infant, and I draw
Alike in good and ill
That sustenance which is the law
And worketh by thy will.
When other sources must go dry
And Cherith's brook has past,
Thy cherished fountains last;
The milk is of eternity,
And mingles with my fast.
With me, whatever fate betide;
And at thy bosom still
I hang, an infant, and I draw
Alike in good and ill
That sustenance which is the law
And worketh by thy will.
When other sources must go dry
And Cherith's brook has past,
Thy cherished fountains last;
The milk is of eternity,
And mingles with my fast.
My Mother Earth, this heart shall lie
Upon thee, when I seem to die;
Then is more truly near
The presence of that awful Power,
And most divine and dear;
For my whole being then shall flower,
Nor heed the changing year.
This nature, which was formed from thee,
Now prisoned in the flesh
And lost in many a mesh;
Shall wax all beautiful and free,
And bloom with thine afresh.
Upon thee, when I seem to die;
Then is more truly near
The presence of that awful Power,
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For my whole being then shall flower,
Nor heed the changing year.
This nature, which was formed from thee,
Now prisoned in the flesh
And lost in many a mesh;
Shall wax all beautiful and free,
And bloom with thine afresh.
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