A Prayer

By George Sterling

God, Thou who bringest morning out of night,
    Bring her to me, so more to me than morn!
    Fair as those roses of Thine east reborn
From pure abysses of celestial light,
So let her steal on my adoring sight,
    So let her greet me, I who go forlorn,
    By wildest hope and fears unceasing torn,
Who, finding Love, have found him in his might.

But bring her not as morning comes, to go,
    Nor mock me with a fleeting Paradise,
        Tho in her face its holiest flowers live!
Yea! knowing her, what more remains to know?
    For I have gazed within her tender eyes,
        And found Thee there, and all thou hast to give!

Written en route to California.

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