by Patience Worth
Spring, thou art but His smile
Of happiness in me, and sullen days
Of weariness shall fall when Spring is born
In winds of March and rains of April's tears.
Methinks 'tis weariness of His that I,
His loved, should tarry o'er the task,
And leave life's golden sheaves unbound.
And Night, thou too art mine, of Him;
Thy dim and veiled stars are but the eyes
Of Him that through the curtained mystery
Watch on and sever dark from me.
And Love, thou too art His,
His words of wooing to my soul.
Should I, then, crush thee in embrace,
And bruise thee with my kiss,
And drink thy soul through mine?
What, then! 'Tis He, 'tis He, my love,
That gave me thee, and while my love is thine,
What wonder is it causeth here
This heart of mine to stifle so,
And seek expression in a prayer of thanks?
Last updated January 14, 2019