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Hazel bloom

Chapter 53: To My Friend,
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About This Book

A compact collection of lyrical poems and short narratives that meditate on motherhood, faith, and the consolations found in nature. Many pieces recall childhood and domestic scenes, confront suffering and loss, and draw on Christian imagery to offer comfort and moral reflection. The verse moves between contemplative monologue, descriptive nature writing, and occasional narrative sketches, balancing personal feeling with devotional and ethical concerns. Throughout, simple pleasures—flowers, seasons, quiet homelife—are set against questions of destiny, grief, and spiritual hope.

To My Friend,

Mrs. Anna Prichard.

And is time old? How swift he runs!
His months like birds of passage fly.
How slow he rolled a year of suns
When we were children, you and I,
How far away the spring time seemed
When winter wore his angry frown—
An age, when apple blossoms gleamed
Ere they would drop their fruitage down.
Then childhood’s eager heart was waiting
For expectations to unfold,
And churlish time seemed years belating
The wished-for blessings to withhold;
Then Fancy’s fingers held the brush
And painted all the future bright;
Its clouds but showed the rosy flush
Each dawn had woven with its light.
Impatient then, our youthful feet
To climb the distant sun clad hills
Where Pleasure, from her vintage sweet,
For each, a golden chalice fills—To
stand beneath the shining arch,
By rainbow-tinted promise spanned:—
What fine advance, in Life’s grand march,
Our strong, young courage planned.
But ah! in life’s late afternoon,
No worldly wealth, no laurels won—
I grieve that time has fled so soon
With so much planned, left all undone;
The barren years, like surf-worn sand,
With glints of sun and shadow flecked,
Are strewn with fragments as the strand
And show where Hope’s rich cargoes wrecked.
No mould of sloth lies o’er the years—
No waste of dissipation’s fire
Is smoldering in regrets and tears,
Yet youth’s fond dream—intense desire
A cruel fate has still denied;
Or, was it Heaven’s kind decree
That set that cherished wish aside
To bring a richer gift to me?
There’s naught in God’s infinitude
Of gifts for us, like home and wife,
And happy, blessed motherhood,
The crowning gift of woman’s life.
These gifts transmute to dear delight
Each humble task, all toil and care,
And keep home’s sacred altar bright
With love’s sweet offerings there.
All these, and one more gift is mine
That stirs with joy my brooding thought—
A friendship rare and true as thine,
A chain—all precious links—inwrought
With sacred trust. Oh hush, my heart,
No more in bitterness complain:
Thou wouldst not with thy treasures part
Youth’s wildest dream of power to gain.