As earth pours freely to the sea
Her thousand streams of wealth untold,
So flows my silent life to thee,
Glad that its very sands are gold.
What care I for thy carelessness?
I give from depths that overflow,
Regardless that their power to bless
Thy spirit cannot sound or know.
Far lingering on a distant dawn,
My triumph shines, more sweet than late;
When, from these mortal mists withdrawn,
Thy heart shall know me—I can wait.
Rose Terry Cooke [1827-1892]
THE MISSIVE
I that tremble at your feet
Am a rose;
Nothing dewier or more sweet
Buds or blows;
He that plucked me, he that threw me
Breathed in fire his whole soul through me.
How the cold air is infused
With the scent!
See, this satin leaf is bruised—
Bruised and bent,
Lift me, lift the wounded blossom,
Soothe it at your rosier bosom!
Frown not with averted eyes!
Joy's a flower
That is born a god, and dies
In an hour.
Take me, for the Summer closes,
And your life is but a rose's.
Edmund Gosse [1849-1928]