Classic Poem

I KNOW no love but her my dreams behold
And she is fairest by a hundred fold,
And we shall meet before the years are told.

They say she will not come—she is too rare—
That fate will not embody one so fair
To be a mortal, for a mortal's prayer.

One answers, whatsoever ye require
In praying, think ye have what ye desire,
And 'twill be granted as thy prayers conspire.

But if she came not, could I cease to dream?
'Tis better with its love and faith supreme,
Its dignity, than life of lower scheme.

My daily thoughts do not more aptly taint
Beneath the guiding influence of a saint
Whose character my best perceptions paint.

My work is none the worse that one stands by
Inscrutably, to prompt the erring eye
And wandering hand to fruitful industry.

The pen as freely marks the meaning line,
The digits still as rapidly combine
As when my dearest thought was less divine.

My dearest thought!—that daily grows more dear
That daily challenges a higher peer,
And daily seeks a more exalted sphere.

Whose service still must win my steps along,
Abashed at last the loftiest bards among
Where weakest music is a seraph-song.

Ah! love, while thus in dreams I seek delight
Thyself mayst walk at hand and through the night
To make the morning lovely in my sight.

Even as I stretch my hand and lisp some word,
The dark may lighten, and my dreams be stirred,
True life, true love, begin; my prayers be heard.