Classic Poem

Now thou art with me, angel of each day,
Each day is as an angel golden-plumed;
The old desires that tortured and consumed
Have gathered rapid wings, and sped away.
The old fierce yearning is a thing entombed
For ever 'neath the old skies cold and grey;
Upon life's grass-plots many a flower has bloomed;
The larks in blue skies murmur music gay.

O woman, woman, who canst give a crown
Sweeter than roses, richer than renown,
How long thou lingerest ere thine hands bestow, —
Yet when thou dost give, how divine a glow
Of heavenly rapture lights thy face! — how calm
The boon of flowers soft-pressed within thy palm!