With the love of God encompassed in her smiling, weeping eyes.
I will bury on the morrow, too, a grandame, wrinkled, old;
One whose pleasures of the present were the joys that had been told;
I will bury one whose blessing
Was the transport of caressing
Every joy that she had buried-every lost and broken prize;
With a gleam of heaven-expected, in her dim and longing eyes.
I will joy for her to-morrow, as I see her compassed in;
For the lips now pure and holy might be some time stained with sin;
And the brow now white and stainless,