Celia Thaxter

Wait

ARE the roses fallen, dear my child?
    Has the winter left us only thorns,
Sharp and shuddering stalks in tangles wild,
    Set with cruel teeth and iron horns?
 
Wait a little, fret not, and at last
    Beauty will the barren boughs again
Tenderly re-clothe, when snows are past,
    And the earth grows glad in sun and rain.
 
Never vex your heart nor tear your hands,
    Searching 'mid the thorns for vanished bliss;
For the soul that patience understands
    Needs no wisdom more divine than this:
 
Wait! The sweet flowers of the coming spring
    Beautiful as those you mourn shall be.
Wait! for happy birds are sure to sing,
    While new roses bloom for you and me.
Autres oeuvres par Celia Thaxter...



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