WHEN all the winds of life were dull and tame
She looked out where
her bed of roses burned,
And saw that whether
each red bud was turned
Down to the arid earth from which it came,
Or up to Him who shaped its lovely frame,
The infinite perfection of it yearned
To her, because in her
the rose discerned
A life of fragrance and a soul of flame.
weary heart, thou art thyself a rose!
Perfection holds thee
in her clinging hand
And whispers to thee all her sweet desire.
Faint not! The most monotonous wind that
Shall waft thy fragrance
through a bloomless land
And fan thy dulling flame to deeper fire. [Page