If thy deep-thrilling voice, with that low tone
Of earnest tenderness, which now, even now
Seems floating through my soul, were music taken
For ever from this world—oh! thus forsaken
Could I bear on? Thou livest, thou livest, thou’rt mine!
With this glad thought I make my heart a shrine,
And by the lamp which quenchless there shall burn,
Sit a lone watcher for the day’s return.
IV.
And lo! the joy that cometh with the morning,