Part 2 — DEVOTA.

Sweet image of the one I love, To whom your infant years were given (And still the faithful colors[61] prove A constancy not all in heaven): To me a violet near a brink, Far-hidden from the beaten way, And where but rarest flowerets drink A freshness from the ripples’ play: A lily in a vale of rest, And where the angels know a nook But one shy form has ever prest— A poet with a poet’s book. But poet’s book has never said What I, O lily, find in you: ’Twas never writ and never read, Though always old and always new. And ah, that you must change and go— The violet fade, the lily die! Let others joy to watch you grow; Let others smile: so will not I. Yet smile I should. Is heaven a dream? In sooth, he needs to be forgiven Who matches with the things that seem A deathless flower, that blooms for heaven. And while he mourns the onward years That sweep you from the things that seem, Let faith make sunshine on his tears: ’Tis heaven is real, and earth the dream.