XLII. 'My future will not copy fair my past'— The word by his appealing look upcast To the white throne of God, I turned at last, By natural ills, received the comfort fast, Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled. Leave here the pages with long musing curled, And write me new my future's epigraph, New angel mine, unhoped for in the world! XLIII. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. With my lost saints,-I love thee with the breath, XLIV. BELOVED, thou hast brought me many flowers In this close room, nor missed the sun and showers. Take back these thoughts which here unfolded too, From my heart's ground. Indeed, those beds and bowers Thy flowers, and keep them where they shall not pine. And tell thy soul, their roots are left in mine. |