Thy Picture

By George Sterling

Withold, O God! the guerdon of my sight
    Or of Thy mercy grant me strength to bear
    This final dream of beauty unaware,
This star of stars in all the mortal night!
Alas! her utter loveliness! What might
    Shall I not go mad, who know too well
    Of her effacing and elysian hair?
Nay! Let me die there, lost within her light!

God, shall I not go mad, who know too well
That past these gates of fair and glorious dwell
    Divinities of soul surpassing all
        That sight shall ever fathom of her grace?
Alas! what voices of enchantment call
    To Love grown sad with gazing on her face!

Written in Sag Harbor.

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