  IF I could blend into my verse That soft and slumb’rous haze, So faintly resting on the rose Before the autumn days Have chilled its heart, and numbed the leaves, And drunk the precious dew, Then could I melodize in song, Her life so pure and true. Or could I weave into this song Her smile, so rich and rare, That found its way to every heart, And left its halo there— Then earth would not seem desolate, Or days be lone or long, Since she would sweetly live again In verse, and smile in song. All this is vain! both pen and voice, Too weak to speak her worth; Though memory writes in words of gold, Her beauteous deeds on earth. Heaven claimed our flower—there we may bloom, If we the watchword keep: “Whatsoever thou shall sow, That also thou shall reap.” |
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