Robert Burns Wilson (1850–1916)

FAIR, fragile waif;—whose wandering child art thou!

Climb’d’st thou the sun’s beam, from the ocean’s breast,

Or from some ice-capped mountain’s sparkling crest;

Or from the rill which bathed yon hill’s hot brow

When summer’s fever burned;—all ashen, now,

With winter’s savage frown? or didst thou rest

Within some pool which breathing spring caressed

With silken leaves, that decked the dipping bough?

Mayhap a tear-like drop of morning’s dew

Wert thou—spilled from the hare-bell’s trembling cup,

Or nestled on some blade—content to be

The glory of the ray which bare thee up,

Far—far—within the skies’ wide sea of blue:—

Now, wandering back across the frozen lea.