Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/There's Nothing Lost

There's Nothing Lost.

There's nothing lost. The tiniest flower
That grows within the darkest vale,
Though lost to view, has still the power
The rarest perfume to exhale;
That perfume, borne on Zephyr's wings
May visit some lone sick one's bed,
And like the balm affection brings,
'Twill scatter gladness round her head.

There's nothing lost. The drop of dew
That trembles in the rosebud's breast,
Will seek its home in ether blue,
And fall again as pure and blest—
Perchance to revel in the spray,
Or moisten the dry, parching sod,
Or mingle in the fountain spray,
Or sparkle in the bow of God.

There's nothing lost. The seed that's cast
By careless hands upon the ground,
Will yet take root, and may at last
A green and glorious tree be found;
Beneath its shade, some pilgrim may
Seek shelter from the heat of noon,
While in its boughs the breezes play,
And songbirds sing their sweetest tune.

There's nothing lost. The slightest tone
Or whisper from a loved one's voice,
May melt a heart of hardest stone,
And make the saddened heart rejoice.
And then, again, the careless word
Our thoughtless lips too often speak,
May touch a heart already stirred,
And cause that troubled heart to break.

There's nothing lost. The faintest strain
Of breathings from some dear one's lute,
In memory's dream may come again,
Though every mournful string be mute.
The music of some happier hour—
The harp that swells with love's own words,
May thrill the soul with deepest power
When still the hand that swept its chords.