Héloïse Durant

AS wearied traveler o’er the burning sands

Sees distant haven in a speck of green,

Knowing what cooling springs those branches screen,

Hastes laggard feet until he gladly stands

Within the palm’s sweet shade, while eager hands

Seek welcome streams, amid the restful scene

His drooping heart revives. (What if between

This spot and home lie tracks of desert lands?

The present joy is his to take and keep.)

So in our wandering o’er the sands of Time,

When wearied, sick at heart, we blindly weep,

A tender word, a smile, sweet strain, pure rhyme,

Will give us blessed rest awhile, and let

Our souls for once their bitterness forget.