Reflections beneath the Limber Pine

by Homer S. Ellsworth

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    Soft as silence is the rustling

    Of the ancient pine at morn;

    And I know it was of sapling size

    The day that Christ was born.

    Far below are waters still

    And pastures spreading green,

    Consumed by joy my soul’s restored

    By God’s own pastoral scene.

    My brimming cup is running o’er,

    An angel portion mine;

    And yet it haunteth me to lose

    The overflow divine.

    O greedy heart and miser’s mind,

    A bigger cup you crave

    That you may have and hold and hoard

    And lose it at the grave.

    Then like the dawn above the tree,

    The joyful answer there—

    I must not hoard the overflow

    But with my brother share.

    Not bigger cups but bigger hearts;

    O may I strive to be

    More like the Babe the Father gave

    When sapling size this tree.