because thou hast the power and own’st the grace

to look through and behind this mask of me,

(against which, years have beat thus blanchingly,

with their rains,) and behold my soul’s true face,

the dim and weary witness of life’s race,—

because thou hast the faith and love to see,

through that same soul’s distracting lethargy,

the patient angel waiting for a place

in the new heavens,—because nor sin nor woe,

nor god’s infliction, nor death’s neighbourhood,

nor all which others viewing, turn to go,

nor all which makes me tired of all, self-viewed,—

nothing repels thee, . . . dearest, teach me so

to pour out gratitude, as thou dost, good!