I MARKED this morning, by the wood,
What way the pennyroyal grew,
Amid the waste of snow that stood
Deep on the path which well I knew ;
For every slender stem upreared
Its head within a little round,
In which no leaf nor blade appeared
Save its sweet self from the bare ground.
Its own warm heart had nestled there,
A sheltered home wherein to thrive, Looking so stately, fresh, and fair,
And where all else was dead, alive.
There, in its charméd hold serene,
And strong and fragrant as it rose,
It made me think of my soul’s queen,
Whom I from all the world had chose.
I thought of one whose heart of love,
Where’er she dwells, her circle finds ;
Amid life’s frost, who soars above
The weariness of vacant minds;
Who rules her little realm, content,
Not caring for a large applause,
Still finding in all hearts consent
To make her wishes more than laws.
Go, fragrant sprays, and touch her hand,
Or press her lip, if it may be ;
May her charmed circle soon expand
Enough to find there room for me.
Thomas William Parsons.