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O
N a gently sloping hillside, with its trees, its rock and rill, Where the birds of all the colors of the rainbow sweetly Trill, While we seek the sparkling waters, of purest springs above, Brimming in fullest measure of the cup akin to love. Many drafts in this creation are extended to our hand, In the universe of blessings, in this Morning-Glory land, And the little rill is singing, as to smooth the pebbled way Which it touches with the sweetness of the sun which gives us day. Close beside the gurgling streamlet, where the birds may pitch their song As to charm the buds and flowers urging them to come along, Still the bearer of rare sweetness though its life is but an hour, Is the cup with nectar laden, just the little wildwood flower. Life its beauty cup is resting on the tender, gracious stem, Calling to the beams of sunshine as its autograph and pen; Calling for the very nectar of the dewdrop in its cup Which is laden with the sweetness which the fairies pause to sup; Woven in the rare creation are the golden threads of light, While the rainbow hues are blending with their tokens of delight, And the odor of sweet incense, by the olive branch and dove, Come to us, the charming flower, through His sweetest Cup of Love. |