Anne Whitney




by Anne Whitney

A sweet hope fluttering at my heart
Seems oftener like despair,
A treasure, never yet confessed,
Turns fair to foul, and foul to fair.

Because I may not hope this hope,
This feeling may not feel,
Its joy has boundless aim and scope,
Its fiery pain no touch can heal.

Gather me roses with the thorn,
And berries with the bane;
Blend into one the night and morn,
Blend summer's sun with wintry rain;

Yet these are never like the woe,
The treasure I conceal;
All bleak, all dark, all bane, all thorn;
My fiery ill is all my weal.


Copyright 1859
346 & 348 Broadway
D. Appleton & Company
New York