Page:Verses–Blanche·Baughan-1898.pdf/29



O BLISS too exquisite for song! I am at peace, my pain is past. For Nature, holy, sweet and strong, Hath drawn me back to her at last.

Mother! Loose not thy dear embrace From thy poor passionate child again! I could not even dream thy face In that wild agony of pain.

But, now!—The clouds are roll’d away, The moon looks lovingly from Heaven. Thousands of tender voices say, “Rest now, poor soul! Thou art forgiven!”