Classic Poem

Bright be the skies that cover thee,
—Child of the sunny brow,—
Bright as the dream flung over thee
—By all that meets thee now,—
Thy heart is beating joyously,
—Thy voice is like a bird's,
And sweetly breaks the melody
—Of thy imperfect words.
I know no fount that gushes out
As gladly as thy tiny shout.

I would that thou might'st ever be
—As beautiful as now,
That time might ever leave as free
—Thy yet unwritten brow.
I would life were all poetry
—To gentle measure set,
That naught but chastened melody
—Might stain thine eye of jet,
Nor one discordant note be spoken,
Till God the cunning harp hath broken.

I would—but deeper things than these
—With woman's lot are wove:
Wrought of intensest sympathies,
—And nerved by purest love;
By the strong spirit's discipline,
—By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
—Is woman won to heaven.
“Her lot is on thee,” lovely child—
God keep thy spirit undefiled!

I fear thy gentle loveliness,
—Thy witching tone and air,
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness
—May be to thee a snare.
The silver stars may purely shine,
—The waters taintless flow:
But they who kneel at woman's shrine
—Breathe on it as they bow.
Peace may fling back the gift again,
But the crushed flower will leave a stain.

What shall preserve thee, beautiful child?
—Keep thee as thou art now?
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled,
—At God's pure throne to bow?
The world is but a broken reed,
—And life grows early dim—
Who shall be near thee in thy need,
—To lead thee up to Him?
He who himself was “undefiled?”
With Him we trust thee, beautiful child!