She gathers up material for Heaven.
Mark what is in her grasp—lo! thrifty tares,
Old, unrepented sins thou hast forgotten —
And thistles, too, thine unforgiven wrongs —
And worthless weeds, thy lost and squandered hours —
And flowers, thy deeds of common charity,
Which Pity’s ardent hot-bed forced to shoot,
Not Duty’s tardy but unerring soil —
Life’s sweet embellishments, which make it fair,
Yet have no signal claim to merit—these