Explore "Lines" by Mary Baker Eddy on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer. -- _Moore._
/ Was that fold for the lambkin soft virtue's repose, / Where the weary and earth-stricken lay down their woes, -- / When the fountain and leaflet are frozen and sere, / And the mountains more friendless, -- their home is not here?
/ When the herd had forsaken, and left them to stray / From the green sunny slopes of the woodland away; / Where the music of waters had fled to the sea, / And this life but one given to suffer and be?
/ Was it then thou didst call them to banish all pain, / And the harpstring, just breaking, reecho again / To a strain of enchantment that flowed as the wave, / Where they waited to welcome the murmur it gave?
/ Oh, there's never a shadow where sunshine is not, / And never the sunshine without a dark spot; / Yet there's one will be victor, for glory and fame, / Without heart to define them, were only a name!
Lynn, Mass., _February 19, 1868_.