To Marie Louise Shew

Of all who hail thy presence as the morning-    Of all to whom thine absence is the night-    The blotting utterly from out high heaven    The sacred sun- of all who, weeping, bless thee    Hourly for hope- for life- ah! above all,    For the resurrection of deep-buried faith    In Truth- in Virtue- in Humanity-    Of all who, on Despair's unhallowed bed    Lying down to die, have suddenly arisen    At thy soft-murmured words, "Let there be light!"    At the soft-murmured words that were fulfilled    In the seraphic glancing of thine eyes-    Of all who owe thee most- whose gratitude    Nearest resembles worship- oh, remember    The truest- the most fervently devoted,    And think that these weak lines are written by him-    By him who, as he pens them, thrills to think    His spirit is communing with an angel's.