Theodore Harding Rand (1835–1900)

PURE lily, open on the breast

Of toiling waters’ much unrest,

Thy simple soul mounts up in worship

Like ecstasy of a spirit blest!

Thy wealth of ivory and gold,

All that thou hast, thou dost unfold!

Fixed in the unseen thy life breathes upward

A heavenly essence from out earth’s mould.

Now comes the chill and dusk of night,—

Folds up thy precious gold and white!

Thy casket sinks within veiled bosom,

To ope the richer in morrow’s light.