by Patience Worth
Ah, greet the day, which, like a golden butterfly,
Hovereth 'twixt the night and morn;
And welcome her fullness-the hours 'mid shadow
And those the rose shall grace.
Hast thou among her hours
Thy heart's desire and dearest? Name thou then
Of all His beauteous gifts thy greatest treasure.
The morning, cool and damp, dark-shadowed
By the frowning sun-is this thy chosen?
The midday, flaming as a sword,
Deep-stained by noon's becrimsoned light-
Is this thy chosen? Or misty startide,
Woven like a spinner's web and jeweled
By the climbing moon-is this thy chosen?
Doth forest shade, or shimmering stream,
Or wild bird song, or cooing of the nesting dove,
Bespeak thy chosen? He who sendeth light
Sendeth all to thee, pledges of a bonded love.
And ye who know Him not, look ye! From all
His gifts He pilfered that which made it His
To add His fullest offering of love.
From out the morning, at the earliest tide,
He plucked two lingering stars, who tarried lest
The dark should sorrow. And when the day was born,
The glow of sun-flush, veiled by gossamer cloud
And tinted soft by lingering night;
And rose petals, scattered by a loving breeze;
The lily's satin cheek, and dove cooes,
And wild bird song, and Death himself
Is called to offer of himself;
And soft as willow buds may be,
He claimeth but the down to fashion this-
Thy gift, the essence of His love-
Thine own first-born.
Last updated January 14, 2019