May Riley Smith (1842?–1927)

WITHIN the slender chalice of thy hand

“Hold fast what I give thee,” and drop down, too,

The fringes of those tender flowers of blue,

Thy wondering eyes; nor question nor withstand

What I may give. Perchance my love hath planned

Some sweet surprise, or test if thou be true.

What if it be a sprig of bitterest rue;

A strange swift summons to an unknown land;

A hurting thorn; a cross?—rare gifts, I know,

For love to bring; but wouldst thou trust me still?

Quick, dear, thine answer! “I should trust until

The hidden meaning in thy gift should show.”

Ah, sweet, when God sends just such gifts to thee,

Canst thou not answer Him as thou dost me?