The Wild-Wood Anemone- by Robert Burns Wilson

Here in the wilds, unmarked of men,
Dost thou lift up thine eye;
A little while to bloom, and then,
Unmarked of men, to die.
So sweet — so fair —
I wonder where
Thy spirit then shall fly?

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A little while for sun and cheer,
A little while for song,
A little space for dreaming here,
Thou canst not tarry long;
Slight — and so pale,
So fair and frail —
What heart could do thee wrong?

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” A little while! A little while, ”
The brook doth sing full near,
But ever doth thy beauty smile
Well pleased that song to hear.
Lone and so weak,
Thy bended cheek
Is blanched, but not with fear.

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A little while thy star shall gleam
Beside this tinkling burn,
But this thy gentle life doth seem
A book I fain would learn.
No help — no stay,
Thou must away,
And never more return.

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The storm-cloud glooms above thy head,
The rain falls fast and free,
Then doth the broad may-apple spread
Her sheltering leaf for thee;
And at thy side
The dimpling tide
Laughs out aloud in glee.

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Thou canst not know the heavy heart
That beats against this breast,
The stifled cries that vainly start
From anguish and unrest —
‘Tis well — ’tis well,
Life is but hell,
When hope is left unblest.

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The raindrop glistens on the leaf,
The dogwood gleams like snow,
The earth is fair beyond belief,
And oh, this air doth blow
As it had fanned
That far-off land
Where sorrow can not go.

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Content! Content! Thy sweet content
Hath made thy life divine;
I would my weary soul were blent
With that pure soul of thine,
I am but blind,
I can not find
A balm to comfort mine.

 

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