Some thought that shall heart’s dearest service prove—
Find I but one e’er-echoing word of love
That doth all else I seek most fair enfold.
Too great thy deeds for my poor verse to tell
That need the Tuscan’s speech of Paradise;
Even to think them, tears are in my eyes
And sorrow stifles the Te Deum’s swell—
Tears for so dear a feast seem gift unkind,
But love in every falling bead is shrined.
V.