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poems by mary baker eddy
Stern, passionless, no soul those looks betray;
Though kindred rocks, to sport at mortal clay—
Much as the chisel of the sculptor's art
"Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart."
Though kindred rocks, to sport at mortal clay—
Much as the chisel of the sculptor's art
"Plays round the head, but comes not to the heart."
Ah, who can fathom thee! Ambitious man,
Like a trained falcon in the Gallic van,
Guided and led, can never reach to thee
With all the strength of weakness—vanity!
Like a trained falcon in the Gallic van,
Guided and led, can never reach to thee
With all the strength of weakness—vanity!
Great as thou art, and paralleled by none,
Admired by all, still art thou drear and lone!
The moon looks down upon thine exiled height;
The stars, so cold, so glitteringly bright,
Admired by all, still art thou drear and lone!
The moon looks down upon thine exiled height;
The stars, so cold, so glitteringly bright,
On wings of morning gladly flit away,
Yield to the sun's more genial, mighty ray;
The white waves kiss the murmuring rill—
But thy deep silence is unbroken still.
Yield to the sun's more genial, mighty ray;
The white waves kiss the murmuring rill—
But thy deep silence is unbroken still.
