FROM the still sphere where dwells my highest hope,
Stand off, I pray you, nor disturb in the air!
Lest while you boast it living, it should die,
And I lose all, whose all is centered there.
Bring me no arguments, no reasoned proof;
How it their weakness cloud that sacred trust?
Leave it to God alone to mark its growth
And keep it deathless― till I turn to dust.
Nor is this all,—though more I dare not say,—
Words would but marshal thoughts to endless strife;
Enough, if, cherished in my being’s core,
The silent hope may mould the lowly life.
Lucy Smith.
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