Books by Mary Baker Eddy

page 864


Come to thy bowers, sweet spring,
   And paint the gray, stark trees,
The bud, the leaf and wing - 
   Bring with thee brush and breeze.

And soft thy shading lay
   On vale and woodland deep;
With sunshine's lovely ray
   Light o'er the rugged steep.

More softly warm and weave
   The patient, timid grass,
Till heard at silvery eve
   Poor robin's lonely mass.

Bid faithful swallows come
   And build their cozy nests,
Where wind nor storm can numb
   Their downy little breasts.

Come at the sad heart's call,
   To empty summer bowers,
Where still and dead are all
   The vernal songs and flowers.

PO 54

It may be months or years
   Since joyous spring was there.
O come to clouds and tears
   With light and song and prayer!

PO 55

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