Sometimes, from the far-away,
Wing a little thought to me;
In the night or in the day,
It will give a rest to me.
I have praise of many here,
And the world gives me renown;
Let it go — give me one tear,
'Twill be a jewel in my crown.
What care I for earthly fame?
How I shrink from all its glare!
I would rather that my name
Would be shrined in some one's prayer.
Many hearts are all too much,
Or too little in their praise;
I would rather feel the touch
Of one prayer that thrills all days.
A Song
Written in an Album.
Pure faced page! waiting so long
To welcome my muse and me;
Fold to thy breast, like a mother, the song
That floats from my spirit to thee.
And song! sound soft as the streamlet sings,
And sweet as the Summer's birds,
And pure and bright and white be the wings
That will waft thee into words.
Yea! fly as the sea-birds fly over the sea
To rest on the far-off beach,
And breathe forth the message I trust to thee,
Tear toned on the shores of speech.
But ere you go, dip your snowy wing
In a wave of my spirit's deep —
In a wave that is purest — then haste and bring
A song to the hearts that weep.