How bitter is the thought that I, thy child,
Remember not the touch, the look, the tone,
Which made my young life thrill—that I alone
Forget the face that o’er my cradle smil’d!
And yet I know that if a sudden light
Reveal’d thy living likeness, I should find
That my poor heart hath pictur’d thee aright.
So I will wait, nor think the lot unkind
That hides thee from me, till I know by sight
The perfect face thro’ love on earth divin’d.