THE maiden whom his fancy paints
Is all unlike the girl I am ;
I vex the air with weary plaints :
She dwells within a saintly calm.
I see in him the good I seek ;
He sees in me but faults to shun ;
He thinks me wrong, he knows me weak ; —
I hate myself, so lightly won.
I lift my heart unto his smile ;
I follow him with faithful eyes ;
I know myself as far the while
As is the sunflower from the skies.
He gives the hand he gives to all,—
A kindly touch, a friendly grasp ;
My fingers tremble as they fall,
Thrilled into weakness, from his clasp.
I hang upon his lightest word ;
I grow beneath his careless praise ;
I stir, as the poor weed is stirred,
Drinking the sunshine summer days.
I know not when the charm will end ;
I cannot dream my dream undone ;
And even now it seems to blend
With life immortal, unbegun.
Is heaven before? I shrink away;
I have no confidence to reach ;
I can but fall and blindly pray:
'T is God apportions life to each.
I know he gives and he withholds;
I have not, and this strong soul has :
The mystery the bud enfolds
May never bring its fruit to pass.
I wonder if God sees and cares ;
I wonder am I right or wrong:
Pluck me the wheat from out the tares
And stop the murmur of my song!
D. H. R. Goodale.