Poems (Helen Jenkins)/A Morning Ride

A MORNING RIDE.

One summer morning, long ago,
When earth and sky were all aglow
With daybreak's rosy light,
We journeyed a fair country through,
While yet the sparkling drops of dew
With azure tints were bright.

Tall thistles stood erect and proud,
Veiling their faces in a cloud
Of filmy, fleecy lace.
Fair buttercups the fields did crowd,
And clover-heads were softly bowed,
As if in silent grace.

From wayside bush and tree, was heard
The sweetest song of every bird,
Outgushing cheerily.
The leaflets, deeply veined and shirred,
By the cool zephyrs lightly stirred,
Were dancing merrily.

Each cottage window seemed a-blaze,
As o'er the hills the gleaming rays
Of amber sunlight peered,
Chasing deep in the darksome maze
Of the dim woodland's hidden ways,
The frighted shadows wierd.

The world had never seemed so fair;
I quite forgot life's fret and care;
My heart sang all the way
Unspoken songs of praise and prayer;
For God and heaven were everywhere
That blissful summer day.

We traversed hills and valleys wide,
Where gleaming waters oft we spied
In many a lovely spot;
And long before the sun had dried
The misty webs where fairies hide,
We reached the place we sought.

The greeting I shall ne'er forget,
Or the dear, loving face we met
Within the open door:
The hands outreaching eagerly
To clasp our own so tenderly,
I love to think it o'er.

The picture was so sweet, so fair!
The dear old lady standing there,
With look of glad surprise;
The soft eyes and the shining hair;
The trustful look a saint might wear,—
Are sacred memories.

The farmhouse, in its grassy nest,
Betokened comfort, joy and rest;
Home pleasures sweet and rare.
And while I tarried there a guest,
I thought its inmates truly blest,
Such loving hearts were there.