TO AN ARTIST AT HER EASEL
It was a fair October day,
The distant hills were gold and brown,
And yet the heavens could not frown,
Though Summer's joys had passed away.
Upon the grass I musing lay,
And watched an artist's magic skill
That slowly formed a distant hill;
And, in my heart I longed to say,
If thou couldst paint the eager face,
The parted lips, the fevered brow,
The earnest gaze that fronts me now,
Thy face would surely grow apace,
I swear it by my truthful pen
Thy name would be immortal then.
The distant hills were gold and brown,
And yet the heavens could not frown,
Though Summer's joys had passed away.
Upon the grass I musing lay,
And watched an artist's magic skill
That slowly formed a distant hill;
And, in my heart I longed to say,
If thou couldst paint the eager face,
The parted lips, the fevered brow,
The earnest gaze that fronts me now,
Thy face would surely grow apace,
I swear it by my truthful pen
Thy name would be immortal then.
THE HARVEST
Behold the golden fields of ripening grain,
The fair fruition of the sun and rain,
And man's poor heritage of tears and cares.
And in the golden grain behold the tares;
Poor human tares,—'tis part of my belief,—
God will forget and bind you in His sheaf.
The fair fruition of the sun and rain,
And man's poor heritage of tears and cares.
And in the golden grain behold the tares;
Poor human tares,—'tis part of my belief,—
God will forget and bind you in His sheaf.
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