Yes , I will stamp her image on my soul,
Though all unworthy such high portraiture
Tablet so vile, — for ever to endure.
Nor, though by fits across my spirit roll
Dim clouds of anguish, shall my heart give way.
For not in weak and infant-like distress
Behoves it the fair moonlight to survey
Because we cannot grasp it: rather bless
The dear mild ray that on the throbbing heart
Falls soft as seraph's glance of kindliest power,
And doth its melting loveliness impart
To all it looks upon. In happy hour
So may I frame my soul to think on thee,
Whom never but from far these worthless eyes may see.
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.