Page:Poems Shipton.djvu/172

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 In that pierced palm of Thine.
My drooping head, Lord, shelter
 Upon Thy loving breast;
Thy presence must go with me—
 Wilt Thou not give me rest?

I sat me in the desert
 That dreary day alone,
Counting life's cherished promise
 Of bud and beauty gone.
In my spirit's deep recesses
 A still small voice I heard—
"Better for thee, beloved,
 The withering of thy gourd.

"My hand in love bestowed it,
 To cheer thy desert way;
I will not let My blessing
 Thy trusting heart betray.
Behold, the bower I build thee
 No east wind e'er can blight;
My wings shall be thy shadow;
 My love thy soul's delight.

"It was My hand, beloved one,
 That trained thy sheltering gourd;
The sun scorched at My bidding,
 The wind obeyed My word.
'Twas I prepared in secret