4648383Poems — GatheredFrances M. Sharpless

GATHERED [Suggested by an epitaph mentioned in Fox's Journal.]
It was but a sweet white rose,
Unfolding to sun and air;
I watched it gently unclose,
With many a yearning prayer.

One morning I sought my delight
At earliest gleam of dawn;—
But no blossom greeted my sight,
The beautiful wonder was gone.

"Who hath gathered this bud?" I cried,
Amid weeping that would not cease:—
"The Master Himself," one replied;
And in anguish I held my peace.