TO SYLVA

I know thou art true, and I know thou art fair

As the rose-bud that blooms in thy beautiful hair;

Thou art far, but I feel the warm throb of thy heart;

Thou art far, but I love thee wherever thou art.

Wherever at noontide my spirit may be,

At evening it silently wanders to thee;

It seeks thee, my dear one, for comfort and rest,

As the weary-winged dove seeks at night-fall her nest.

Through the battle of life — through its sorrow and care —

Till the mortal sink down with its load of despair,—

Till we meet at the feet of the Father and Son,

I'll love thee and cherish thee, beautiful one.