There, with the sun, a rose-bud on thy breast,
How thou rejoicest, hastening to speak
To thy fond Father! Oh, how vain to seek
A sweeter refuge for the Spirit's rest,
Than mid thy blushes, when thou marvelest
At His great love, for, oh! thy heart is meek.
Oh beauty! in thy Father's arms, thou art.
Enclose me in thy dimple; for, though this
Were but a bud, or molded seed, what bliss
To watch bloom gather scent, or new life start,