Sought she a bitter solace
In creatures of a coarser mind.

But the breath of the nettle stung her,
And the thistle's rude embrace
Burned her sensitive nature,
And scarred the fair, stained face.

Lower drooped the lily,
And died at the feet of the weeds;
And only the tender mosses
Ministered to her needs.

And still the tall while lilies
Stand as cold, and proud,
And still the weeds and thistles
Against the lilies crowd.

Alike the same warm sunbeams,
On weed and flower fall,
Alike by the same soil nourished,
And the great God made them all.


* * * * *



A VALENTINE.