5
I give thee joy! O word of power!
Believe, though slight the tie in sooth,
When heart to heart its fountain opes
The plant to water that with hopes
Is budding for fruition's flower—
The word, potential made, in truth
Shall give thee joy!
Shall give thee joy! Oh, not in vain,
For erring child the mother's prayer;
The sigh, wherein a martyr's breath
Exhales from ignominious death
For some lost cause! In humbler strain
Shall this poor word a virtue bear,
And give thee joy!
When panting sighs the bosom fill,
And hands by chance united thrill
At once with one delicious pain
The pulses and the nerves of twain;
When eyes that erst could meet with ease,
Do seek, yet, seeking, shyly shun
Extatic conscious unison,—
The sure beginnings, say, be these,
