Poems (Waldenburg)/Providence

For works with similar titles, see Providence.
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PROVIDENCE.
A tender poet in his verse hath toldThe separate destinies that did enfoldThree roses from a florist's window sold.
A lover gave the perfect flower to herWho found in him a faithful worshiper.
The second rose, e'en as its sister fair,Drooped blushing in an erring woman's hair.
The third a tearful mother, sore bereft,Within the hand of her dead darling left.
Thy pardon, poet, if another sees Still farther on thy flowers' destiniesAnd weaves from out thy thought a wider sense Of the all-watchful eyes of Providence!
Pillowed on bosom fair the flower laid. Still gold will last while roses sweet must fade.And from its snowy throne of love and pride The rose was flung, and on the highway died.
The Magdalene at midnight stood alone, The songs, the jests the revellers had gone.One pallid rose she holds and kneeling there In tearful whisper breathes to heaven this prayer:
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"Upon the petals pure of this sweet rose I press my sinful lips; its leaves unclosePast visions to my heart of Heaven and God. Oh save me, Lord, tho' I in guilt have trod!"
The mother dreams and in the dream appears Her little child and wipes away the tears;Within her hand she holds the fading rose And whispers softer than soft falling snows,
'Take thou thy rose again and dry thine eyes, Bright flowers bloom everywhere in Paradise.And I, sweet mother, wait in joy for thee To come where roses bloom eternally!"

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