Edith Matilda Thomas (12 August 1854 – 13 September 1925 / Chatham Center / Ohio)
The Blessed Present
Pluck me yon rose, but say not, '‘T will not last!'
Or that 'To-morrow’s rose may be more sweet.'
Say not, the darling bird I hear, will fleet
When its green summer home yields to the blast.
This moment, freed from Fear, that shrank aghast—
From Hope, that ran on wing'd, mercurial feet,
I, Sovereign of the Present, hold my seat!
All smile on me, and smiles on all I cast.
Oh, hitherto, my love, I have been thrall
To the old Past, dim ringing with regret;
Or else, uncertain days of bliss to be
Made me all restless with their veering call:
But thou bestowest wealth I ne'er had yet—
The blessed Present thou dost bring to me!
Comments about this poem (The Blessed Present by Edith Matilda Thomas )
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