Through fairy green of willows old,
Aslant the stately, virgin, cold
Form of the sycamore,
Where poplars laugh, where beeches pray,
Where breezes sigh, where streamlets sing,
And birds are ever caroling,
One morn, I saw a sunbeam stray;
This single, holy, radiant ray
On the wide earth had lost its way,
Escaped through Heaven's half-open door.
"Where will the sunbeam find its home?"
I idly wondered. "Will it roam
Until it makes its nest
Perhaps in some dear baby's hair?"
But no! a baby's tresses shine
With their own radiance divine—
The sun of Heaven is always there.
Or would it find a secret lair
In flowery heart? Nay, in that rare,
Deep cell, God's sun long found its rest.
So the lone sunbeam strays at will,
And longs for Heaven and rest, until
Into the silent grove,
An old man, crippled by disease,
Creeps down the path, with weary eyes.
That are too worn to seek the skies,
With palsied limbs and shaking knees,
And fixed, dull stare, that only sees
The stony ground. Oh! stately trees!
Shade this drear form with arms of love!
As he pursues his lonely way
Through the green wood, the shining ray
Straightway appears to dart
To that bent form, and seems to light
A glory in the thin white hair;
Then, restless still, it makes its lair
In the sad eyes, so dim of sight,
And, smiling through the sombre night,
It deeper sinks, a radiance bright,
And nestles in the old man's heart. |