Wild honey from various thyme :: :: University of Virginia Library

Nothing there is on earth we may not lose,
Nothing quite firm: we lose the spring each year,
The sun each day, the flowers as they appear;
But when that sure, sad voice its plaint renews,
“Yea, it is possible that we may lose
Even our God”—O infinitely near,
Far Spirit, I am struck with sudden fear!
A fading falls across my thoughts. I choose
All to forego, all to obliterate
Sooner than miss remembered joy of Thee,
Who art alone most worth remembering.
Break every hope, save of Thyself, in me,
So that Thou fail me not, O Fount, O Spring
Given in the desert to my bitter state!