Oh, that we loved thee purely!
⁠Loved thee, our God, our all;
With a love that is large and joyous,
⁠Not love that is cramped and small!

Oh, that the best affections
⁠Of hearts that are warm and true,
Were lavished in richest treasure
⁠Where only such wealth is due!

Oh, that our souls were gardens
⁠Of flowers most sweet and rare,
All watered with tears of penance,
⁠And nourished with faithful prayer!

Oh, that our wills so feeble
⁠Grew strong with the strength of love,
Till they broke earth's fetters, and changed them
⁠For links that are forged above!

Oh, that the pride which spurs us
⁠To things unworthy and base
Would soar on a grander pinion,
⁠And strive in a nobler race!

Oh, that our sensitive spirits,
⁠That shrink from the shadow of shame,
Were callous to pain that is selfish,
⁠And keen for their Master's fame!

Oh, that the grief that moves us,
⁠Were grief for God's love reviled;
For wounds that the heart of a father
⁠Has borne from the hand of a child!

Oh, that our poor complainings
⁠Were changed into grateful lays;
That the sighs of a heart in sadness
⁠Were fragrant with perfume of praise!

Lord help our earnest desires,
⁠And give them a deeper root;
Let them grow into flower and blossom,
⁠And ripen to glorious fruit!

Hush! hush! The night draws on;
The sun has long since set;
And the fast-closing flowers
With heavy dews are wet.
⁠⁠Shut close thine eyes;
Twilight is darkening the skies.

Hush! hush! All sounds are still;
The birds are gone to rest;
The mother-bird keeps warm
Her young within the nest.
⁠⁠Shut close thine eyes,
For the last songster homeward flies.

Hush! hush! The moonbeams fall
Upon the summer leas;
The night-wind murmurs soft
Among the dusky trees.
⁠⁠Shut close thine eyes,
For the last streak of daylight dies.

Hush! hush! The day is done.
Lie down, my child, and sleep;
The silver stars above
For thee a watch will keep.
⁠⁠Shut close thine eyes;
Sweet peace upon thy pillow lies.

Hush! hush! And happy dreams
All through the silent night.
Fear nothing; slumber on
Until the morning bright.
⁠⁠Shut close thine eyes,
For angels sing thy lullabies.

The nightingale sang to the rose
⁠Through the livelong night,
Till her hue from a ruby red
⁠Turned wan and white.
All night it rose and fell —
⁠That silvery strain,
And the heart of the red rose throbbed
⁠With divinest pain;
"O Love, O Love!" it rang,
⁠"I love but thee.
Thou art the queen of all flowers," he sang,
⁠"And queen of me!
O Love, my Love!" he said.
⁠— Before the dawn,
The rose on its stalk hung dead,
⁠The bird was gone.

O patient creature with a peasant face,
Burnt by the summer sun, begrimed with stains,
And standing humbly in the dingy lanes!
There seems a mystery in thy work and place,
Which crowns thee with significance and grace;
Whose is the milk that fills thy faithful veins?
What royal nursling comes at night and drains
Unscorned the food of the plebeian race?
By day I mark no living thing which rests
On thee, save butterflies of gold and brown,
Who turn from flowers that are more fair, more sweet,
And, crowding eagerly, sink fluttering down,
And hang, like jewels flashing in the heat,
Upon thy splendid rounded purple breasts.