No gift is worthy, my Beloved,
Of what thou art to me;
But these frail children of my love,
I would bestow on thee.
The years will come, the years will go,
As poets oft have sung;
But Love is Life, and Life is Love,
And Love, is ever young!
CONTENTS
BROWN LEAVES
From the pipes of old Winter, has come a shrill blast,
And upon the gray earth a pure mantle is cast.
’Tis a garment of snow-flakes come down from the skies
And beneath it, in silence, the patient earth lies.
The moaning and rustling of dead leaves is past—
The comforter came, they are sheltered at last.
O, brown leaves of autumn! ’Tis a wise hand that leads,
And he sends what is best, who best knoweth our needs.
He gives and he takes, and in taking he gives:
From life cometh death, and in dying we live.
From mists of the river, the brooklet and sea
This beautiful shroud has been woven, and ye
Of its coming wist not, for from out the still air
It as silently fell as an answer to prayer.
O, could ye but creep from your coverlet white
And visit your home, a most wonderful sight
Would gladden your hearts, for the sun met the snow,
And the frost followed on with his cold breath, and lo!
Your home is a palace of crystal more bright
Than Aladdin beheld with his magical light.
Ye glow and ye fade—but as wondrous to me
Is the leaf on the ground as the leaf on the tree:
For links in time’s chain clasp eternity fast
And the chain becomes endless. Ever the past
Pays its debt to the future, leaf-life, or man’s,
So perfect the system that surely no hands
But of Infinite wisdom and love could be
The author of such an unerring decree.
Who knoweth the end? Little leaflets, not we!
Enough for ourselves, as we hang on life’s tree,
To gather the sunshine and freely bestow
Our shade to the weary and faint ones below.
And when we grow brown, as, surely we must,
The end will be glorious can we but trust
That the Infinite love, which careth for all,
Forgets not the little brown leaves when they fall.