Poem by Edith Matilda Thomas

The Blessed Present

Pluck me yon rose, but say not, "‘T will not last!"
     Or that "To-morrow’s rose may be more sweet."
     Say not, the darling bird I hear, will fleet
     When its green summer home yields to the blast.
This moment, freed from Fear, that shrank aghast—
     From Hope, that ran on wing'd, mercurial feet,
     I, Sovereign of the Present, hold my seat!
     All smile on me, and smiles on all I cast.
Oh, hitherto, my love, I have been thrall
     To the old Past, dim ringing with regret;
     Or else, uncertain days of bliss to be
Made me all restless with their veering call:
     But thou bestowest wealth I ne'er had yet—
     The blessed Present thou dost bring to me!

1. Her Christmas Present
2. Refreshments for Santa Claus
3. The Firebrand (Northern Ohio, Christmas Eve, 1804)
4. The Christmas Sheaf
5. “I Ought to Mustn't”

Print

1189 Views

Last Poems

To Russian version