  M My heart was once a folded flower, Within whose jewel-tinted cup,— Still hidden even from itself,— A wealth of joy is treasured up. But now my heart is like a flower From which a dainty humming-bird Has rifled all the choicest sweets, And left without one last fond word The flower-soul so deeply stirred. And once my heart was like a gem, Set in a rich betrothal ring; Unconscious in its darkened case How fair it lies there glittering. But now I think my heart is like The lady who has worn the ring, And draws it from her finger slight With love’s bewildered wondering That love should be a poor bruised thing. And once my heart was like a nest, High in the apple branches hung; Where in the early April dew No happy birds have ever sung. Now ’tis itself a wounded bird; And though sometimes you hear it sing, The Heavenly Father knows what pain It tries to hide by uttering |
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