Beechenbrook - A Rhyme of the War by Margaret J. Preston
page 17 of 66 (25%)
page 17 of 66 (25%)
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The conflict so equal, so stubborn, is past, And life gains the hardly-won battle at last. How sweet through the long convalescence to lie, And from the low window, gaze out at the sky, And float, as the zephyrs so tranquilly do, Aloft in the depths of ineffable blue:-- In painless, delicious half consciousness brood,-- No duties to cumber, no claims to intrude,-- Receptive as childhood, from trouble as free, And feel it is bliss enough simply, to be! For Alice,--what pencil can picture her joy,-- So perfect, so thankful, so free from annoy, As her lips press the lotus-bound chalice, and drain That exquisite blessedness born out of pain! Oh! not in her maidenhood, blushing and sweet, When Douglass first poured out his love at her feet; And not when a shrinking and beautiful bride, With worshipping fondness she clung to his side; And not in those holiest moments of life, When first she was held to his heart, as his wife; And never in motherhood's earliest bliss, Had she tasted a happiness rounded like this! And Douglass, safe sheltered from war's rude alarms, Finds Eden's lost precincts again in her arms: He hears afar off, in the distance, the roar And the lash of the billows that break on the shore Of his isle of enchantment,--his haven of rest,-- |
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