by John Banister Tabb
Were all the heavens an overladen bough
Of ripened benediction lowered above me,
What could I crave, soul-satisfied as now
That thou dost love me?
The door is shut. To each unsheltered Blessing
Henceforth I say,
Depart! What would'st thou of me?
Beggared I am of want, this boon possessing,
That thou dost love me.
John Lane, LondonCopeland and Day, Boston