THE ROSE CURE.
Written for Rose Gearing, a grandchild seven years old, while at Lorain, O., November, 1897.
One day I went out walking,
And the road was hard and long,
No friend was with me talking,
And no bird gave out a song.
The air was raw and chilly,
The warm summer days had past,
My path was rough and hilly,
The flowers were fading fast.
The winds were blowing madly,
Lake Erie was lashed to foam,
And I was feeling sadly,
Two hundred long miles from home.
I tried to stop that feeling,
And remove it from my mind,
But what would do the healing,
Was a thing I had to find.
I thought of a nice river,
Where the water ever flows,
But God the mighty giver,
Soon reminded me of Rose.
My heart with joy went beaming,
My spirits were lifted up,
Away went idle dreaming,
I had found the healing cup.
Hereafter when in sadness,
Bewailing ill-fortune’s blows,
My thoughts will turn with gladness,
To the love of my sweet Rose.