POETRY.

White Ribbon, Volume 5, Issue 56, 1 February 1900, Page 9

POETRY.

My Love. Not as all other women art* Is she that to my soul is dear; Her glorious fancies come from far, Beneath the silver evening star, And yet her heart is ever near. Great feelings hath she of her own, Which lesser souls may never know ; God giveth them to her alone, And sweet they are as any tone Wherewith the wind may ehoose to blow. Yet in herself she dwelleth not, Although no home were half so fair ; No simplest duty is forgot, Life hath no dim and lowly spot That doth not in her sunshine share. She doeth little kindnesses, Which most leave undone or despise ; For naught that sets one heart at ease, And giveth happiness or jieace, Is low-esteemed in her eyes, She hath no scorn of common things, And though she seem of other birth, Round us her heart entwines and clings, And patiently she folds her wings To tread the humble paths of earth. Blessing she is ; Gtnl made her so, And deeds of week day holiness Fall from her noiseless as the snow, Nor hath she ever chance ■ to know That aught w ere easier than to bless. She is most fair, and there unto Her life doth rightly harmonise; Feeling or t lought that was not true Ne'er made less beautiful the blue Unclouded heaven of her eyes. She is a woman; one in«whow The springtime of her childish years Hath never lost its fresh perfume, Though knowing well that life hath room For many blights and many tears. I love her with a love as still As a broad river s peaceful might, Which, by high tower and lowly mill, Goes wandering at its own w ill, And yet doth ever How aright. And, on its full, deep breast serene, Like quiet isles, my duties lie ; It Hows around them and between, And makes them fresh, and fair, and gr<*en. Sweet homes wherein to live and die. —tames Hussell Lowell.