Poems (Rice)/With a Moss-wreath

by Maria Theresa Rice

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.