320
A SHEAF GLEANED
As an exotic fragile bud,
In some sad foreign coast,
Bends mourning on its feeble stalk
Beneath a heavy frost,
Thus in my youth,—alas! I bow,
As feeble as the flower;
But knowing in the grave is peace,
I welcome yet the hour.
An exile from my earliest prime,
Benumbed and chilled with cold,
I long to warm myself again,
Beside the hearth of old.
Arise each day—my native land,
In memory's longing eye!
In thee began my course of life,
In thee I wish to die.
A.
