William Byron Forbush

O Heavenly Father, fold me close to Thee.

   I look up in Thy peaceful eyes to-night

   With naught in mine but an unreasoning fright,

And nestle like a bird that would be free.

Then, tired even of this, all wearily

   I shade my face from the too-dazzling light

   Upon Thy breast, and long if I but might

Forever in this haven cradled be.

Oh, what is there in the hot streets of life

   Whereon I wander that can give me peace,

Or where can I lie down, assured of rest?

Without I hear but noise and din of strife,

   The howl and wail and cries that never cease;

Within, the stillness of Thy holy breast.

Red as my sweetheart's lips

Were the nodding heads of clover.

Deep as my true-love's eyes

The blue sky bending over.

All out of doors, both birds and men, were singing.

The year was springing,

And so was love.

The wintry sky is gray

As the ash of a dying ember.

The snow falls white to-day,-

It is the chill November.

The breeze that sweeps the orchard floors is sighing.

The year is dying,

But not my love!

My garden walks are bright in the sun;

   'T is summer, the birds sing gay;

The delicate vines o'er the warm earth run,

   And the leaves look up to the day.

But of all the blossoms on the earth's broad breast,

   The fairest flower that grows

Is the one that stands, the queen of the rest,

   Down in my garden close.

   Down in the garden close

   You'll find a pure white rose.

Its incense rare

Fills the dreamy air,

   Down in the garden close.

Across the paths drift the dry leaves sere.

   The birds and the summer are fled,

My plants are dead with the dying year,

   The flowers their bloom have shed;

And the queen lies low in a soft, still sleep,

   Safe from the wintry snows,

But never again will the sunlight creep

   Down in my garden close.

   Down in the garden close

   The wind with a wild wail goes.

Its chilly gust

Stirs the soft grave dust,

Down in the garden close.

Behind our new church, on the hill,

    The old church used to stand,

As grim and rough as an old-time saint,

Stained by age, but never by paint,

    With a willow on either hand.

A travelers, passing by that way,

    As he looked the edifice o'er,

With a sense not quite so devout as keen,

Is said to have murmured, "God's house I've seen,

    But never His barn before!"