Elizabeth Stuart Phelps Ward

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I wonder will you take it, Dear,--
My blessing, from me, when you hear
For what it is you ask me?

The shrouded and averted thing,
With hidden face upon its wing,
With whose dark name you task me.

The solemn, awful, smiling thing,
With shining face upon its wing,
And shining hand to hold you.

The promise of a princely friend,
The richest gift I have to send,
With which my love could fold you.

So light to think! so hard to say!
A bitter thing to give away!
So sweet an one to borrow!

Yet still, indeed, my dreaming fond
Can never rise nor reach beyond
The blessing, Dear,--of Sorrow.

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