There is a story I have heard—
A poet learned it of a bird,
And kept its music every word—
A story of a dim ravine,
O'er which the towering tree tops lean,
With one blue rift of sky between;
And there, two thousand years ago,
A little flower as white as snow
Swayed in the silence to and fro.
Day after day, with longing eye,
The floweret watched the narrow sky,
And fleecy clouds that floated by.
And through the darkness, night by night,
One gleaming star would climb the height,
And cheer the lonely floweret's sight.
Thus, watching the blue heavens afar,
And the rising of its favorite star,
A slow change came—but not to mar;
For softly o'er its petals white
There crept a blueness, like the light
Of skies upon a summer night;
And in its chalice, I am told,
The bonny bell was formed to hold
A tiny star that gleamed like gold.
Now, little people, sweet and true,
I find a lesson here for you
Writ in the floweret's bell of blue:
The patient child whose watchful eye
Strives after all things pure and high,
Shall take their image by and by.
