ALBERT E. S. SMYTHE
WITH fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud,The little song I sing with so much care,Sweet for a day, will swoon upon the floodOf days that will forget my song was fair.The master-song is mighty rushing windMixed with all fragrance, strong with a great breathFrom cloudland, and the climes that win the mind,And full of pulses to awaken death.Full well I know the storm will smite my flower,My tiny short-stemmed blossom of the sod;But when my flower and I have lived an hourI'll bear it on the wind away to God:And wind and flower and spirit may adornSome Eden-garden where new worlds are born.
WITH fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud,The little song I sing with so much care,Sweet for a day, will swoon upon the floodOf days that will forget my song was fair.The master-song is mighty rushing windMixed with all fragrance, strong with a great breathFrom cloudland, and the climes that win the mind,And full of pulses to awaken death.Full well I know the storm will smite my flower,My tiny short-stemmed blossom of the sod;But when my flower and I have lived an hourI'll bear it on the wind away to God:And wind and flower and spirit may adornSome Eden-garden where new worlds are born.
WITH fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud,The little song I sing with so much care,Sweet for a day, will swoon upon the floodOf days that will forget my song was fair.The master-song is mighty rushing windMixed with all fragrance, strong with a great breathFrom cloudland, and the climes that win the mind,And full of pulses to awaken death.Full well I know the storm will smite my flower,My tiny short-stemmed blossom of the sod;But when my flower and I have lived an hourI'll bear it on the wind away to God:And wind and flower and spirit may adornSome Eden-garden where new worlds are born.
WITH fragrance flown, as of a long-plucked bud,
The little song I sing with so much care,
Sweet for a day, will swoon upon the flood
Of days that will forget my song was fair.
The master-song is mighty rushing wind
Mixed with all fragrance, strong with a great breath
From cloudland, and the climes that win the mind,
And full of pulses to awaken death.
Full well I know the storm will smite my flower,
My tiny short-stemmed blossom of the sod;
But when my flower and I have lived an hour
I'll bear it on the wind away to God:
And wind and flower and spirit may adorn
Some Eden-garden where new worlds are born.