TO A BLUE-FRINGED GENTIAN

O, beautiful blue-fringed gentian bloom, Woulds’t know why I care for you? You were plucked for me by a friendly hand From the hillside where you grew. How could you come up from the brown earth And be such a gorgeous thing? Did mother nature color your gown, When she tinted the blue bird’s wing? Or did the rain drops into your buds, Bring down the blue of the sky? Yea, He who painted the rain-bow’s stripes, E’en the waysides, beautify. A dearer spot is your woodland home, Where the pine trees lull to rest; Where the sweet Spring-blossoms come again, And the song-birds love to nest. To drop your seed, in the soft brown earth With your kindred little flower, Was that your dream ere you were plucked To wither in an hour? “Glad am I to be the messenger Of tender thoughts,” you say, “And to cheer the sick and sorrowing ones Is my dearest wish, alway.” Then tenderly, little blossom of blue, I’ll fold you away with care, You came, a messenger of love, And found me in dispair. You brought the sunshine and summer shower, The bird song and hum of the bee, The noisy stream and the silent lake, And the balsam from the tree. * * * * * * * And now all seems good, for all seems God, I, too, have touched the hem Of the seamless robe of his great love, For lo! I am well again.