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POEMS BY CLARA A. MERRILL
—As the rose hails the dew of the evening
When parched by the heat of the sun;
—As the hand, that with toil has grown weary
Welcomes rest when the day's work is done—
When parched by the heat of the sun;
—As the hand, that with toil has grown weary
Welcomes rest when the day's work is done—
—So thus, for your picture a welcome
Most fervent will e'er be secure
But my poem—Ah! what of my poem?
—There can scarcely be aught to endure.
Tho' your picture's like beauteous landscape
That by Artists will ever be praised;
—Yet my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
Most fervent will e'er be secure
But my poem—Ah! what of my poem?
—There can scarcely be aught to endure.
Tho' your picture's like beauteous landscape
That by Artists will ever be praised;
—Yet my poem will be like a cipher
That some rude, reckless hand has erased!
