Ah, know I not the spring's snow-bell?
The summer woods at close of even?
Autumn, when earth dies into heaven,
And winter's storms, I know them well.
I know the rapture music brings,
The power that dwells in ordered tones,
A living voice that loves and moans,
And speaks unutterable things.
Consenting beauties in a whole;
The living eye, the imperial head,
The gait of inward music bred,
The woman form, a radiant soul.
And splendours all unspoken bide
Within the ken of spirit's eye;
And many a glory saileth by,
Borne on the Godhead's living tide.
But I leave all, thou man of woe!
Put off my shoes, and come to Thee;
Thou art most beautiful to me;
More wonderful than all I know.
As child forsakes his favourite toy,
His sisters' sport, his wild bird's nest;
And climbing to his mother's breast,
Enjoys yet more his former joy—
I lose to find. On forehead wide
The jewels tenfold light afford:
So, gathered round thy glory, Lord,
All beauty else is glorified.
I WOULD I WERE A CHILD.
I would I were a child,
That I might look, and laugh, and say, My Father!
And follow Thee with running feet, or rather
Be led thus through the wild.
How I would hold thy hand!
My glad eyes often to thy glory lifting,
Which casts all beauteous shadows, ever shifting,
Over this sea and land.