  A modest plant; soft shades of green In leaflets poised on slender stem; And all outspread to catch the glow Of morning sun or dew-drop gem. But, lo, what change! When finger-tips But touch the leaflets' fringe, the charm Of life is gone—Mimosa shrinks, As conscious of some present harm. So would I have my soul recoil From touch of wrong or thought of sin; So throw its portals wide again, To let the dew and sunshine in. |
|
