English Roses by F. Harald Williams [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] |
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“SHE KNEW NOT HOW TO PLAY.”
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 | English Roses |  |
“SHE KNEW NOT HOW TO PLAY.”
I brought her pretty toys and things that children love so much,
At which the heart with rapture sings just from their very touch;
Sweet golden showers of shining flowers
That leapt from foaming green,
With tops and balls and trumpet calls
And wonder worlds between;
But though to brighter earth and skies I gently led the way,
She only looked with listless eyes—she knew not how to play.
At which the heart with rapture sings just from their very touch;
Sweet golden showers of shining flowers
That leapt from foaming green,
With tops and balls and trumpet calls
And wonder worlds between;
But though to brighter earth and skies I gently led the way,
She only looked with listless eyes—she knew not how to play.
To her toys had no meaning, life was burdened with its bond
Of hourly labour, hourly strife, and no blue sky beyond;
No gleam of grace upon her face
Had fallen for a while,
No thought of rest for her confest
The freedom of a smile;
The forms of beauty, the kind word, which lightens half our day,
Were mocking signs of bliss unheard—she knew not how to play.
Of hourly labour, hourly strife, and no blue sky beyond;
No gleam of grace upon her face
Had fallen for a while,
No thought of rest for her confest
The freedom of a smile;
The forms of beauty, the kind word, which lightens half our day,
Were mocking signs of bliss unheard—she knew not how to play.
I told her of the pleasures stored for children such as she,
That from the Heart of God outpoured their gladness like the sea;
I taught her how her heavy brow
Was framed for laughter's seat,
And that young breast which made a nest
For care was hope's retreat;
But though I challenged her with song her cheeks were cold and gray,
As those that dwell in darkness long—she knew not how to play.
That from the Heart of God outpoured their gladness like the sea;
I taught her how her heavy brow
Was framed for laughter's seat,
And that young breast which made a nest
For care was hope's retreat;
But though I challenged her with song her cheeks were cold and gray,
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| English Roses | |