Poems (Rice)/With a Moss-wreath
WITH A MOSS-WREATH.
CUSTOM has her forms and uses, Courtesies, too, all admire; But cold etiquette abuses, Ofttimes chills each pure desire.
Lady, here in greenwood bowers, While the song-bird sang to me, Gilding all the summer hours, With the sweetest melody,—Here, in arbors by the mountain, Where the merry streamlets play, From each shady brook and fountain, I have gathered by the way
Mosses exquisite, outvying Garden gems of varied hue,—Not like them their richness dying,— Wove them in a wreath for you; You, with every grace beguiling Grief and pain, a vestal where Poverty and want are calling, Answering the orphan's prayer.
For its unpretending beauty, Gentle lady, you will prize; Trifles cheer the path of duty, Often in them magic lies; Nature with her quiet teaching Offers her perpetual balm, To our hearts alway beseeching All to sing their simple psalm.
Lady, pardon; may the pleasure Which it gave me while I wove Be imparted in full measure From this quiet, lovely grove; Go, fair wreath, to halls of splendor, From a donor's hand unknown; If a smile of love you render, Then your power I'll joy to own.
You may deck some wall or statue With your amaranthine bloom; Or perchance, alas, in sorrow Laid upon some loved one's tomb: Now adieu to stream and mountain, Song and bird and greenwood bower; Rock and wreath and gushing fountain All must own your thrilling power.