Lydia Huntley Sigourney

Poetry

Morn on her rosy couch awoke,
   Enchantment led the hour,
And mirth and music drank the dews
   That freshen’d Beauty’s flower,
Then from her bower of deep delight,
   I heard a young girl sing,
‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
   For ’tis a holy thing.’

The Sun in noon-day heat rose high,
   And on the heaving breast,
I saw a weary pilgrim toil
   Unpitied and unblest,
Yet still in trembling measures flow’d
   Forth from a broken string,
‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
   For ’tis a holy thing.’

’Twas night, and Death the curtains drew,
   ’Mid agony severe,
While there a willing spirit went
   Home to a glorious sphere,
Yet still it sigh’d, even when was spread
   The waiting Angel’s wing,
‘Oh, speak no ill of poetry,
   For ’tis a holy thing.’