The Pyxidanthera

Sweet child of April, I have found thy place Of deep retirement. Where the low swamp ferns Curl upward from their sheaths, and lichens creep Upon the fallen branch, and mosses dark Deepen and brighten, where the ardent sun Doth enter with restrained and chastened beam, And the light cadence of the blue-bird’s song Doth falter in the cedar,—there the Spring In gratitude hath wrought the sweet surprise And marvel of thy unobtrusive bloom. Most perfect symbol of my purest thought,— A thought so close and warm within my heart No words can shape its secret, and no prayer Can breathe its sacredness—be thou my type, And breathe to one, who wanders here at dawn, The deep devotion, which, transcending speech, Lights all the folded silence of my heart As thy sweet beauty doth the shadow here. So let thy clusters brighten, star on star Of pink and white about his lingering feet, Till, dreaming and enchanted, there shall pass Into his life the story that my soul Hath given thee. So shall his will be stirred To purest purpose and divinest deed, And every hour be touched with grace and light.