My future will not copy fair my past -I wrote that once; and thinking at my
My ministering life-angel
The word by his appealing look
To the white throne of God,
I turned at last,
And there, instead, saw thee, not
To angels in thy soul! Then I, long
By natural ills, received the comfort fast,
While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim's
Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.
I seek no copy now of life's first half:
Leave here the pages with long musing curled,
And write me new my future's epigraph,
New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!
