David Atwood Wasson (1823–1887)

AS unto blooming roses, summer dews,

Or morning’s amber to the tree-top choirs,

So to my bosom are the beams that use

To rain on me from eyes that Love inspires;

Your love,—vouchsafe it, royal-hearted Few,—

And I will set no common price thereon;

O, I will keep, as Heaven his holy blue,

Or Night her diamonds, that dear treasure won.

But aught of inward faith must I forego,

Or miss one drop from Truth’s baptismal hand,

Think poorer thoughts, pray cheaper prayers, and grow

Less worthy trust, to meet your hearts’ demand:

Farewell! your wish I for your sake deny;

Rebel to love in truth to love am I.