In one consuming burst find way,
In one bright flood all, all its riches pour.
Thou knowest—thou knowest what love is now!
Its glory and its might—
Are they not written on my brow?
And will that image ever quit thy sight?
No! deathless in thy faithful breast,
There shall my memory keep
Its own bright altar place of rest,
While o'er my grave the cypress branches weep.