Excerpt From "The Young Artist"

Sister, gather the buds of Spring,
All dewy and bright, as they’re opening!
Treasure them up from the frost and blight,
For a lowering day and a starless night;
And they will be fresh in thy bosom still,
When all without may be dark and chill.
Another will seek to be crowned by thee
Lord of thy heart and thy destiny!
Thou may’st bestow, in thy riper years,
Laurels to water with daily tears.
Then will memory love to come
Through mist and shade, to thine early home,
Within the halo that brightly beams
Around the scene of thine infant dreams.
Again thou wilt playfully sit, and look
On the artless sketch of thy brother’s book,
And own no moment of earthly bliss
So pure, so holy, and sweet as this!