Had I one of thy words, my Master, With a spirit and tone of thine, I would run to the farthest Indies To scatter the joy divine. I would waken the frozen ocean With a billowy burst of joy: Stir the ships at their grim ice-moorings The summer passes by. I would enter court and hovel, Forgetful of mien or dress, With a treasure that all should ask for, An errand that all should bless. I seek for thy words, my Master, With a spelling vexed and slow: With scanty illuminations In an alphabet of woe. But while I am searching, scanning A lesson none ask to hear, My life writeth out thy sentence Divinely just and dear.
You may also enjoy reading the works of Howe's daughter, Laura E. Richards.
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