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Poem	MY future will not copy fair my past On any leaf but Heaven's. Be fully done Supernal Will ! I would not fain be one Who, satisfying thirst and breaking fast, Upon the fulness of the heart at last Says no grace after meat. My wine has run Indeed out of my cup, and there is none To gather up the bread of my repast Scattered and trampled; yet I find some good In earth's green herbs, and streams that bubble up Clear from the darkling ground,--content until I sit with angels before better food: -- Dear Christ ! when thy new vintage fills my cup, This hand shall shake no more, nor that wine spill
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