Pale flowers are you, that scarce have known the sun!
by Charles Hanson Towne
Your little faces like sad blossoms seem,
Shut in some room, there helplessly to dream
Of distant glens wherethrough glad rivers run
And winds at night whisper. Daylight done,
You miss the tranquil moon's unfettered beam,
The wide, unsheltered earth, the starlight gleam,
All the old beauty meant for every one.
The clamor of the city streets you hear,
Not the rich silence of the April glade;
The sun-swept places which the good God made
You do not know; white mornings keen and clear
Are not your portion through the golden year,
O little flowers that blossom but to fade!