POEMS



          THE LOST SUNBEAM.
Through fairy green of willows old,
Aslant the stately, virgin, cold
  Form of the sycamore,
Where poplars laugh, where beeches pray,
Where breezes sigh, where streamlets sing,
And birds are ever caroling,
One morn, I saw a sunbeam stray;
This single, holy, radiant ray
On the wide earth had lost its way,
Escaped through Heaven's half-open door.

"Where will the sunbeam find its home"
I idly wondered. "Will it roam
  Until it makes its nest
Perhaps in some dear baby's hair"
But no! a baby's tresses shine
With their own radiance divine
The sun of Heaven is always there.
Or would it find a secret lair
In flowery heart Nay, in that rare,
Deep cell, God's sun long found its rest.

So the lone sunbeam strays at will,
And longs for Heaven and rest, until
   Into the silent grove,
An old man, crippled by disease,
Creeps down the path, with weary eyes,
That are too worn to seek the skies,
With palsied limbs and shaking knees,
And fixed, dull stare, that only sees
The stony ground. Oh! stately trees!
Shade this drear form with arms of love!



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