The Awakening

MARGUERITE BOUVET.

WHAT matters where my body dwells
If but my thoughts are high?
Up in my tower I look across
Where mountains meet the sky;
I dream of an eternal day,
Of things achieved and done,
Of battles fought, woes banished, victories won!
The past—a valley darkened by the mist—
Sinks far below my rising sun.
Once more I live, Hope lights the way,
From its long lethargy my spirit wakes
To behold the breaking day.

Not what we give, but what we share,—
For the gift without the giver is bare;
Who gives himself with his alms feeds three,—
Himself, his hungering neighbor, and me.

LOWELL.

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