Esperance by Eliza Craven Green


ESPERANCE.
Unseen a wild flower spent its life,
Winds caught its last perfume,
And now a thousand hills are rife
With its far-scattered bloom.
Speed on their angel way,
To cheer and soothe a thousand hearts 
That ask not whence the lay.


Thus songs, by unknown poets sung,
Speed on their angel way,
To cheer and soothe a thousand hearts 
That ask not whence the lay.

Enough that in their souls they hear
The echo of the strain,
A hope—a memory—a regret— 
Too sadly sweet for pain.


For this both flower and song were given,
Evangels—each divine;
Sing, Poet!—bloom, untended Flower!—
Heaven sayeth, "Ye are mine!"