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Cover with flowers the wound of the dart,
Fill it with flowers, the void in the heart;
Tenderest thoughts are unfolding to-day,
Sweet as the blossoms a-bloom in the May.
Think not of suffering, bloodshed and strife,
Think not of loss that hath come to thy life,
Think of the peace with suffering done,
Think of the glories their sacrifice won.
This poem is in the public domain.
"Love lives by faith," my lover to me said
In earnest tones which loving thought imbue
With grace divine; such sense of honor, few
On earth attain; and by his fervor led,
My hopes to heaven on airy wings had sped;
When I for answer must—as woman e'er do
Needs question love, and say: "can man be true?"
Like roses the bright dream did pass,
On swift, noiseless footsteps away;
Like glistening dew on the grass,
Dissolving beneath the sun’s ray.
How sad, how glad,
The Christmas morn!
Some say, “To-day
Dear Christ was born,
And hope and mirth
Flood all the earth;
Who would be sad
This Christmas morn.”
How glad, how sad,
The Christmas morn!
“To-day,” some say
Dear Christ was born,
But oh! He died;
Was crucified!
Who could be glad
This Christmas morn!
Or glad, or sad,
This Christmas morn,
To some will come
A joy new-born.
The fleeting breath