PLUCK color from the morning sky,
And wear it as thy diadem ;
Nor pass the wayside flowers by,
But star thy robes with them.
Far in the temple of the sun
The vestal fires of being burn ;
Thence beauty’s finest fibres run.
And weave where’er we turn.
Thy plumes are in the yellow corn,—
But chief the gold of priceless days
In bosom of thy friend is borne,
Coined in his kindly rays.
Here lies thy wealth, go gather it, —
The mine is near, its deeps explore,
And freely give love, metal, wit, —
Thine is the exhaustless ore :
Thine are the precious stones whereon
The weary pass grief’s flooded ford,
And thine the jewelled pavement won
By those who love the Lord.