My ministering life-angel justified

While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrims staff

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried

I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.

Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot

By natural ills, received the comfort fast,

In my old griefs, and with my childhoods faith.

XLII

And tell thy soul their roots are left in mine.

That they should lend九_九_藏_书_网 it utterance, and salute

I wrote that once; and thinking at my side

So, in the like name of that love of ours,

Here s ivy!—take them, as I used to do

Leave here the pages with long musing curled,

Plucked in the garden, all the summer through

But thou, who, in my voices sink and fall

From my hearts ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers

I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;

The word by his appealing look upcast

And write me new my futures epigraph,

XLIV

With thanks 九-九-藏-书-网and love from mine. Deep thanks to all

To hear my music in its louder parts

Who paused a little near the prison-wall

Be overgrown with bitter weeds and rue,

Love that endures, from Life that disappears!

Instruct thine eyes to keep their colors true,

And which on warm and cold days I withdrew

In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers.

I seek no copy now of lifes 九*九*藏*书*网first half:

I love thee with the passion put to use

Instruct me how to thank thee! Oh, to shoot

With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,

My souls full meaning into future years,

XLI

And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

I shall but love thee better after death.

And wait thy weeding; yet heres eglantine,

Or temples occupation, beyond call.

To the white throne of God, I turned at last,

I love thee to the level of everydays

To hearken what I said between my tears, . . .

XLIII

Ere they went onward, each one to the marts

For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.

Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too,

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

When the sob took it, thy divine99lib.netst Arts

My future will not copy fair my past—

And winter, and it seemed as if they grew

Beloved, thou hast brought me many flowers

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

Thy fowers, and keep them where they shall not pine.

Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.

Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,

I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,