To stay in such a world as this.
And soon was that immortal flower—
That bud of being, lent not given—
From blighting sin and sorrow’s shower,
Transplanted safe to bloom in heaven.
’Twas night—the sky was cloudless blue,
And all around was hushed and still,
Save paddle of the light canoe,
And wailing of the whippoorwill.
The moon was like a silver thread,