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.
1859.