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Go, lovely rose ! Tell her that wastes her time on me,
That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.
Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spied,
That hadst thou sprung In deserts where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died.
Small is the worth
Bid her come forth,
Then die, that she,
May read in thee,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair. (A lady of Cambridge, England, loaned Waller's poems to H. K. White, who added the following stanza to the above poem; thus illustrating the difference between earthly and heavenly inspiration:)
“Yet, though thou fade,
And teach the maid
Within the sun-flecked shadows of a forest glade,
"I swear to you,
How often you mistake for blossoms rare
But,” with a merry glance, half arch, half shy, “They do not bloom for every butterfly!”
The day has been very long;
'Tis time for the even song,
Ready to say "Good night:”
To-morrow will bring me light.
It has seemed so long since morning-tide,
And I have been left so lone,
When the early sunlight shone;
And I saw them sink to rest,
earth's mother breast.
That sweetest evening hymn;
“Good night!” I cannot see,
I shall soundly sleep to-night,
To wake in the morning light.
God hath His solitudes, unpeopled yet,
Save by the peaceful life of bird and flower, Where, since the world's foundation, He hath set
The hiding of His power.
Year after year His rains make fresh and green
Lone wastes of prairies, where, as daylight gues, Legions of bright-hued blossoms all unseen
Their carven petals close,
Year after year unnumbered forest leaves
Expand and darken to their perfect prime; Each smallest growth its destiny achieves
In His appointed time.
Amid the strong recesses of the hills,
Fixed by His word, immutable and calm, The murmuring river all the silence fills
With its unheeded psalm.
From deep to deep the floods lift up their voice,
, Because His hand hath measured them of old; The far outgoings of the morn rejoice
His wonders to unfold.