If I, like love, the clouds might rift
O’er poesy’s hidden shrine,
I’d kneel in her presence, her veil uplift.
Ah! henceforth forever she’s mine,
She is mine!
Henceforth and forever she’s mine!
For poesy ever is love’s purest gift,
And yet, like these lines, she is thine;
And still, like myself, she is thine, –
Love’s gift, truly thine.
From Hawthorn Blossoms by Emily Thornton Charles