Christie's Portrait

YOUR tiny picture makes me yearn;
We are so far apart!
My Darling, I can only turn
And kiss you in my heart.
A thousand tender thoughts a-wing
Swarm in a summer clime,
And hover round it murmuring
Like bees at honey-time.

Upon a little girl I look
Whose pureness makes me sad;
I read as in a holy book,
I grow in secret glad!
It seems my darling comes to me
With something I have lost
Over life's tossed and troubled sea,
On some celestial coast.

I think of her when spirit-bowed;
A glory fills the place!
Like sudden light on swords, the proud
Smile flashes in my face;
And others see, in passing by,
But cannot understand
The vision shining in mine eye,
My strength of heart and hand.

That grave content and touching grace
Bring tears into mine eyes;
She makes my heart a holy place
Where hymns and incense rise!
Such calm her gentle spirit brings
As—smiling overhead—
White statued saints with peaceful wings
Shadow the sleeping dead.

Our Christie is no rosy Grace
With beauty all may see;
But I have never felt a face
Grow half so dear to me.
No curling hair about her brows,
Like many merry girls;
Well, straighter to my heart it goes,
And round it curls and curls.

Meek as the wood-anemone glints
To see if skies are blue,
Is my pale flower with her tints
Of heaven shining through!
She will be poor and never fret,
Sleep sound and lowly lie;
Will live her quiet life, and let
The great world-storm go by!

Dear love! God keep her in His grasp,
Meek maiden, or brave wife,
Till His good Angels softly clasp
Her closèd book of life;
And this true picture of the Sun,
With birthday blessings given,
Shall fade before a glorious one
Taken of her in heaven.