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Poem by Menella Bute Smedley
If only to the darken'd eye Or dying heart, Thy will is sweet, Blind me, O Lord, or let me die At once beneath Thy piercèd feet; Against my will Thy way I choose, I wish my dearest hopes denied, For I would love Thee, though I lose The power of loving aught beside! But hearts that breathe in purer air Are like a child that finds a flower, And wonders why it is so fair, And wears it for one happy hour; Then, by a father's arm embraced, Springs to him, leans upon his breast, And yields it, ere he ask, in haste To give him what it loves the best.
Menella Bute Smedley
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