 | Poems (1867) |  |
TO L. A. C.
Oh, hast thou won my heart, my love!What gain to thee? what gain?
It plights thee with no golden ring,
It decks thee with no chain;
A simple thing, yet it will bring
To thee, my love, no pain;
To give thee rest, to make thee blest
It hath been ever fain, my love,
It hath been ever fain!
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What gain to me! what gain!
What brooding calm, what soothing balm,
What sweet release from pain!
Through sudden rest my spirit guessed
What hour to me it came,
And day by day I mark its stay
Through comfort of the same, my love,
Through comfort of the same!
| Poems (1867) | |