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Poem	Since that I may not have Love on this side the grave, Let me imagine Love. Since not mine is the bliss Of 'claspt hands and lips that kiss,' Let me in dreams it prove. What tho' as the years roll No soul shall melt to my soul, Let me conceive such thing; Tho' never shall entwine Loving arms around mine Let dreams caresses bring. To live--it is my doom-- Lonely as in a tomb, This cross on me was laid; My God, I know not why; Here in the dark I lie, Lonely, yet not afraid. It has seemed good to Thee Still to withhold the key Which opes the way to men; I am shut in alone, I make not any moan, Thy ways are past my ken. Yet grant me this, to find The sweetness in my mind Which I must still forego; Great God which art above, Grant me to image Love,-- The bliss without the woe.
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