Poems (Terry, 1861)/Chamomile
CHAMOMILE.
Now heart! send forth thy sweetness! Crushed,—trampled in the dust,— Remember God is just: And for man's incompletenessLet the soft incense of thy pity rise:Make a burnt-offering of the sacrifice!
Think, in thy bitter anguish, Thou hast not done the wrong,— This echo of a song Whose faint, sad minors languishAgainst thy will or care, shall comfort thee,Wouldst thou the wounded or the weapon be?
Art thou too weak and weary, Too pitiless in pain, To love where love is vain? Waste starlight on the dreary,The self-lost, and the cold? for such is oneFor whom thy vernal life is all undone.
The spring-forsaken blossom, Drooping its pallid leaves, Not without purpose grieves; For hidden in its bosomLies the green fruit,—have patience, trust, and truth;God keeps the sunshine of thy darkened youth.
Sore, bruised, and bleeding Under the cruel tread, Let thy pure odors spread, And up to heaven pleading,Draw showered forgiveness on the heart of stone,More pitiful than thine, because far more alone.