Page:Poems Shipton.djvu/39

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Praising the love that marked the path
 That once was blindly trod:
Thus we together still make glad
 The city of our God."

So comforted, my sorrowing head
 Bowed to the silence there;
But still I said, "No other brook
 Was ever half so fair."
But I will now but deeper drink
 From whence its source began;
Deep from the rivers of Thy love,
 Whence, Lord, my brooklet ran.

Still worked I in my garden ground,
 While autumn days drew nigh,
And then the Husbandman returned.
 He passed my ripe grapes by;
He gathered not the pom'granate,
 Nor bent the green fig's bough;
Soft breathing o'er the beds of spice,
 His voice has found me now.

Close at my side a lily grew,
 A fragile bud so small;
None marked it, but I cherished it
 The dearest of them all.