BLACK CAT POEMS
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Mrs. O. M. Livingston
'Tis a mysterious thing to see the earth
Put on the fresh unfolded robe of spring--
To hear the liquid notes go up in mirth,
And melt in chorus from each living thing.
Noiseless the bud expandeth into flower;
Noiseless the forest robes its naked form;
Noiseless as thought in its mysterious power,
Or sunlight breaking through the clouds of storm.
Thoughtful we walk beneath the shadowy tree,
Dense with its canopy of leaves and flowers;
We hear aërial notes, or hum of bee,
And linger careless of the fleeting hours.
The rudest mind or dullest eye can see
This transformation of consummate skill;
For ice-bound streams and desolated tree,
The vernal robe, and gently flowing rill.
The flower at morn unfolds each silken leaf,
And lives its bright and beauteous day;
Then, chilled with age, it droops at dews of eve,
And thus the flowers successive pass away.
Each fragrant bud that opes its incense cup
Upon the air at early morn to pour,
Is filled with myriad life, in brilliant forms,
Whose day with flowers of setting sun is o'er.
Brief particles! minute, mysterious life,
In the material compact perfect made;
Atoms that breathe, and love, and reproduce,
And with the flowers at dews of sunset fade.
Each scene that moves the heart with deep delight,
Whose splendor unexpressed allures the eye,
Is but an atom, like the stars of night,
That shine, when millions hid beyond them lie.
Far, far beneath the waste of waters deep,
Are waving grottoes of perpetual green,
Where buds unfold and vines in beauty creep,
A world of life to human eye unseen.
In all the grand economy of God,
Where'er we gaze, whate'er our footsteps meet,
Through ocean's depths, the air, the verdant sod,
Atom on atom, life on lives complete.
Formed in obedience to stupendous might--
Before whose presence, veiled, in awe we bow;
Who yonder orbs swung loose in breathless height,
And bade them silent roll, since time, as now.
Lost in a reverie too deep for thought,
From these mysterious searchings set me free;
For who shall find out Him the change that wrought,
Or who explore the Power Supreme we see?
poems by Mrs. O. M. Livingston