At the Hill's Top Bides Love
Mine is no wayside rose
All may attend:
At the hill's top it grows,
At the road's end.
Deep in unchidden weeds,
Rose without stain—
His soul its beauty feeds
Who can attain.
He who attains thereto
Faith must disclose,
Ere he will shake the dew
Round its repose.
No pleasant garden-slope
Waiteth for him—
It is to him whose hope
Stayeth undim.
Who trusting receives it,
A faith, in the dale,
His hoping achieves it,
His toil shall avail!
All may attend:
At the hill's top it grows,
At the road's end.
Deep in unchidden weeds,
Rose without stain—
His soul its beauty feeds
Who can attain.
He who attains thereto
Faith must disclose,
Ere he will shake the dew
Round its repose.
No pleasant garden-slope
Waiteth for him—
It is to him whose hope
Stayeth undim.
Who trusting receives it,
A faith, in the dale,
His hoping achieves it,
His toil shall avail!
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