Читать книгу The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14, No. 85, November, 1864 - Various - Страница 2

Pluck color from the morning sky,

And wear it as thy diadem;

Nor pass the wayside flowers by,

But star thy robes with them.

Far in the temple of the sun

The vestal fires of being burn;

Thence beauty's finest fibres run,

And weave where'er we turn.

Thy plumes are in the yellow corn,—

But chief the gold of priceless days

In bosom of thy friend is borne,

Coined in his kindly rays.

Here lies thy wealth, go gather it,—

The mine is near, its deeps explore,

And freely give love, metal, wit,—

Thine is the exhaustless ore:

Thine are the precious stones whereon

The weary pass grief's flooded ford,

And thine the jewelled pavement won

By those who love the Lord.