Excerpt from Poems

Amid the rush and fever of the street, The snarl and clash of countless quarrelling bells, And the sick, heavy heat, The hissing footsteps, and the hateful smells, I found you, speaking quietly Of sunlit hill-horizons and clean earth, While the pale multitude that may not dare To pause and live a moment, lest they die, Swarmed onward with hot eyes, and left you there An armful of God's glory, nothing wort/h.

You are more beautiful than I can know. Even one loving you might gaze an hour Nor learn the perfect ¿ow Of line and tint in one small, purple ¿ower. There are no two of you the same, And every one is wonderful and new Poor baby-blossoms that have died unblown, And you that droop yourselves as if for shame, You too are perfect. I had hardly known The grace of your glad sisters but for you.

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