Home from the observatory, Now I take her on my knee, And I tell her all the glory That the lenses showed to me. Pleased, she listens to my story, Earnest look then turneth she Where the stars are softly blinking In the blue of summer skies. Ah! she sees beyond my thinking, Even into Paradise! Very humbly I am drinking What o’erfloweth from her eyes.
I beg the pardon of these flowers For bringing them to one whose hair Alone doth shame, beyond compare, The sweetest blooms of richest bowers. I beg the pardon of this maid For offering them with hand less pure, A heart less perfect, needing cure By Love’s own music, softly played.
Child, weary of thy baubles of to-day— Child with the golden or the silver hair— Say, how wouldst thou have built creation’s stair, Hadst thou been free to have thy puny way? Could thy intelligence have shot the ray That lit the universe of upper air? Wouldst thou have bid the surging stars to...
Home from the observatory, Now I take her on my knee, And I tell her all the glory That the lenses showed to me. Pleased, she listens to my story, Earnest look then turneth she Where the stars are softly blinking In the blue of summer skies. Ah! she sees beyond my thinking, Even into...
