Only they who search can find
Thy trailing garlands close enshrined;
Unveiling, like a lovely face,
Surprising them with artless grace.
Thou seemest like some sleeping babe,
Upon a leafy pillow laid;
Dreaming, in thy unconscious rest,
Of nest’ling on a mother’s breast.
Or like a maiden in life’s May,
Fresh dawning of her girlish day;
When the pure tint her cheeks disclose
Seems a reflection of the rose.
More coy than hidden love thou art,
With blushing hopes about its heart;
And thy faint breath of fragrance seems
Like kisses stolen in our dreams.
Thou’rt like a gentle poet’s thought,
By Nature’s simplest lessons taught,
Reclining on old moss-grown trees,
Communing with the whisp’ring breeze.
Like timid natures, that conceal
What others carelessly reveal;
Reserving for a chosen few
Their wealth of feeling, pure and true.
Like loving hearts, that ne’er grow old,
Through autumn’s change, or winter’s cold;
Preserving some sweet flowers, that lie
’Neath withered leaves of years gone by.
At sight of thee a troop upsprings
Of simple, pure, and lovely things;
But half thou sayest to my heart,
I find no language to impart.
THE CATHOLIC AND THE QUAKER.
For thee, the priestly rite and prayer
And holy day, and solemn psalm;
For me, the silent reverence, where
My brethren gather, slow and calm.
J. G. Whittier.