Father Ryan's Poems (70)

Laurel

    I found it on a mountain slope, The sunlight on its face； It caught from clouds a smile of hope That brightened all the place. They wreathe with it the warrior's brow, And crown the chieftain's head； But the laurel's leaves love best to grace The garland of the dead. Wild Flower：

    I would not live in a garden, But far from the haunts of men； Nature herself was my warden, I lived in a lone little glen. A wild flower out of the wildwood, Too wild for even a name； As strange and as simple as childhood, And wayward, yet sweet all the same.