Laman Blanchard (1803–1845)

GAYLY and greenly let my seasons run;

And should the war-winds of the world uproot

The sanctities of life, and its sweet fruit

Cast forth as fuel for the fiery sun,

The dews be turned to ice, fair days begun

In peace wear out in pain, and sounds that suit

Despair and discord keep Hope’s harp-strings mute,

Still let me live as love and life were one:

Still let me turn on earth a childlike gaze,

And trust the whispered charities that bring

Tidings of human truth; with inward praise

Watch the weak motion of each common thing,

And find it glorious:—still let me raise

On wintry wrecks an altar to the spring.