All Love
If thy head would touch, but one unfold,
unto my thought, not hold -
as when God's will is only fled, not told.
Could I but rest, on any spot called worth,
ensuing from a time of trailsome birth?
That will of mine, in you -
all love, and no more earth,
is Heaven's mode of calling, known as girth!
Copyright © Paula Larson | Year Posted 2005
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