The Morning-Glory

We wreathed about our darling’s head   The morning-glory bright; Her little face looked out beneath,   So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise,   That we could only say, “She is the morning-glory true,   And her poor types are they.” So always from that happy time   We called her by their name, And very fitting did it seem—   For, sure as morning came, Behind her cradle bars she smiled   To catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flower   And opens to the day. But not so beautiful they rear   Their airy cups of blue, As turned her sweet eyes to the light,   Brimmed with sleep’s tender dew; And not so close their tendrils fine   Round their supports are thrown, As those dear arms whose outstretched plea   Clasped all hearts to her own. We used to think how she had come,   Even as comes the flower, The last and perfect added gift   To crown Love’s morning hour; And how in her was imaged forth   The love we could not say, As on the little dewdrops round   Shines back the heart of day. We never could have thought, O God,   That she must wither up, Almost before a day was flown,   Like the morning-glory’s cup; We never thought to see her droop   Her fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes,   Wilted, and cold, and dead! The morning-glory’s blossoming   Will soon be coming round— We see the rows of heart-shaped leaves   Upspringing from the ground; The tender things the winter killed   Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning   Has passed away from earth. O Earth! in vain our aching eyes   Stretch over thy green plain! Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air   Her spirit to sustain; But up in groves of Paradise   Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful   Twine round our dear Lord’s knee.