green, Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene— This tiny chalice-fleck of living gold."  Then one bent over it, "Ah, flowret bright! For only flowers in this garden grow,— His earth, His sunshine made thee, o'er thee blow His winds, frail thing! In thee He shows His might." 

"Nay, call it not a flower—this little weed,

If plucking it, I kill it, root and seed—

"Weed it may be, and yet it has its use,

Here in its healing essence its excuse

This tapering leaf—this soft and tender green,

Upon my canvas it shall bloom serene—

For only flowers in this garden grow,—

His earth, His sunshine made thee, o'er thee blow

[28]

[28]

THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON (IN MEMORY)

THOMAS WENTWORTH HIGGINSON (IN MEMORY)

 Sage of the silver pen! Wherever thy thought was heard, Thou wert a leader of men. Poet of honored word! Knight of the eagle glance, Piercing the depths of wrong, "Justice" thy cry, and thy lance True in its aim, and strong. Man of the ruddy heart Beating warm for our kind! Thine was the hero's part; Eyes wert thou to the blind: Thou a staff to the weak, Here we our tribute lay— Homage thou didst not seek— Twined with a wreath of bay, A garland woven of love, Woven of love and tears, Pure as the note of a dove, Voicing thy peaceful years. 

Wherever thy thought was heard,

Poet of honored word!

Piercing the depths of wrong,

True in its aim, and strong.

 Prev. P 30/59 next