A modest plant; soft shades of green
In leaflets poised on slender stem;
And all outspread to catch the glow
Of morning sun or dew-drop gem.
But, lo, what change! When finger-tips
But touch the leaflets’ fringe, the charm
Of life is gone — Mimosa shrinks,
As conscious of some present harm.
So would I have my soul recoil
From touch of wrong or thought of sin;
So throw its portals wide again,
To let the dew and sunshine in.