Classic Poem

God! thou hast late in life bestowed upon me a treasure
And given me one late sweet illimitable pleasure,—
This maiden's eyes to see,
God, turn them not away,—or how can I behold thee?
God, take her not away. For mists will then enfold thee,
And faith and hope will perish out of me.

This treasure cometh late,—and after years of sorrow.
O God of life and love, ward off the awful morrow
When I shall wake and find
Her hand removed from mine, and death's cold fingers grasping
The poet's hand that laughed for tenderest pleasure clasping
The slender fingers now by force untwined.