Bret Harte (1836–1902)

O JOY of creation,

To be!

O rapture, to fly

And be free!

Be the battle lost or won,

Though its smoke shall hide the sun,

I shall find my love—the one

Born for me!

I shall know him where he stands

All alone,

With the power in his hands

Not o’erthrown;

I shall know him by his face,

By his godlike front and grace,

I shall hold him for a space

All my own!

It is he—O my love!

So bold!

It is I—all thy love

Foretold!

It is I—O love, what bliss!

Dost thou answer to my kiss?

O sweetheart! what is this

Lieth there so cold?