Pluck color from the morning sky,
And wear it as thy diadem;
Nor pass the wayside flowers by,
But star thy robes with them.
Far in the temple of the sun
The vestal fires of being burn;
Thence beauty's finest fibres run,
And weave where'er we turn.
Thy plumes are in the yellow corn,--
But chief the gold of priceless days
In bosom of thy friend is borne,
Coined in his kindly rays.
Here lies thy wealth, go gather it,--
The mine is near, its deeps explore,
And freely give love, metal, wit,--
Thine is the exhaustless ore:
Thine are the precious stones whereon
The weary pass grief's flooded ford,
And thine the jewelled pavement won
By those who love the Lord.