And many hopes have taken wings
On which my heart was set,—
And I have found that many things
As well as birds forget!
Gather violets white and blue,
Where the southern zephyrs play;
Bring them sparkling with the dew,—
With the blessed dew of May.
Let me fold them to my breast,
Emblems sweet of earthly bliss;
Ha! they love to be caressed,
For they give me kiss for kiss.
How my weary heart doth yearn,
Touched as by a hand Divine,
While their soft blue eyes they turn
Full of sympathy to mine!
Do they know how much I sigh
For the meadows where they grew?
For the forest and the sky,
Where they caught their azure hue?
There is One who knows it all,—
To his loving arms I flee:
Oh, he hears my feeblest call,
And I know he pities me.
He ere long will take my hand
Saying tenderly, “Arise!”
He will lead me to the land
Where no blossom ever dies.
Blessings on thy sunny face,
In my heart thou hast a place,
Humble
Dandelion!
Forms more lovely are around thee,
Purple violets surround thee,—
But I know thy honest heart
Never felt a moment’s smart
At another’s good or beauty,—
Ever at thy post of duty,
Smiling on the great and small,
Rich and poor, and wishing all
Health, and happiness, and pleasure,
Oh, thou art a golden treasure!
I remember years ago,
How I longed to see thee blow,
Humble
Dandelion!
Through the meadows I would wander,
O’er the verdant pastures yonder,
Filling hands and filling lap,
Till the teacher’s rap, rap, rap,
Sounding on the window sash
Dreadful as a thunder crash,
Galled me from my world ideal
To a world how sad and real,—
From a laughing sky and brook
To a dull old spelling-book;
Then with treasures hid securely,
To my seat I crept demurely.
Childhood’s careless days are o’er,
Happy school days come no more,
Humble
Dandelion!
Through a desert I am walking,
Hope eluding, pleasure mocking,
Every earthly fountain dry,
Yet when thou didst meet mine eye,
Something like a beam of gladness
Did illuminate my sadness,
And I hail thee as a friend
Come a holiday to spend
By the couch of pain and anguish.
Where I suffer, moan and languish.
When at length I sink to rest,
And the turf is on my breast,
Humble
Dandelion!
Wilt thou when the morning breaketh,
And the balmy spring awaketh,
Bud and blossom at a breath
From the icy arms of death,
Wilt thou smile upon my tomb?
Drawing beauty from the gloom,
Making life less dark and weary,
Making death itself less dreary,
Whispering in a gentle tone
To the mourner sad and lone,
Of a spring-time when the sleeper
Will arise to bless the weeper?
