Makes shadows that still glow
With burning blossoms—the heart's home
Wherefrom our charmèd feet reluctant roam.
Not pride, nor envy, nor crude wealth
Can bring the drooping roses health,
Nor lift the sanguine poppies, row on row,
Nor from their bed of green
Make every iris spread it like a queen;
While all along the wall
The jeweled colors call.
O, not from these can come the art
That touches the deep heart,
That makes the small blades shove
Through the soft earth into a pictured balm above;
Not sordid thoughts and low
Can make the garden grow
In beauty and delight,
A place to linger in by day or night—
Not these, not these, but love.
"IF, ONE GREAT DAY"
If, one great day, the God I see
Aflame in blade and bush and tree,
In the white dawn and passing sun—
Shall I not joy in that clear sight
And tell in song my strange delight,
Tho' come a day when mist and cloud
Shall the celestial presence shroud?
O, shall I not be bold,
And cry, "Behold!"
Tho' swift the vision darkens and is done?
