Did azure skies, calm fields,
And woods of gold,
That fall reveals, their
Course continuous hold,—
Then autumn were like her.
Did roses bloom beyond
The reach of blight;
Song birds remain unchanged
By migrant flight,—
With these she might compare.
Did not deep winter snow,
So white and clear,
Make haste in muddy
Thaws to disappear,—
Snow somewhat were like her.
Better than all that nature
Yet hath shown,
Or art, she stands secure,
Supreme alone,—
Of whom to you I write.
54
