By George Sterling

Thou biddest that my tears withhold their rain
    And askest Hope to be mine hourly guest.
    Undoubted, merciful: as well request
That I be glad yet know this love in vain!
Ah God! to find at last their blissful pain—
    The lips, the arms, the white angelic breast!
    Ah God! in that pure Paradise to rest
Nor dream of doubt and loneliness again!

Yet sings not Hope most like that timid thrush
    Whose voice is sweetest in a wilderness?
        In subtler things what rapture still can be!
The delicate, unfathomable flush
    That haloes perfect sunsets—thy caress—
        Thy smile—thy voice—thine eyes' divinity!


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