MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS, 1842
VIII
MISCELLANEOUS SONNETS, 1842
LO! where she stands fixed in a saint-like trance, One upward hand, as if she needed rest From rapture, lying softly on her breast! Nor wants her eyeball an ethereal glance; But not the less–nay more–that countenance, While thus illumined, tells of painful strife For a sick heart made weary of this life By love, long crossed with adverse circumstance. –Would She were now as when she hoped to pass At God’s appointed hour to them who tread 10 Heaven’s sapphire pavement, yet breathed well content, Well pleased, her foot should print earth’s common grass, Lived thankful for day’s light, for daily bread, For health, and time in obvious duty spent.