She is my Dearest, and I take
My burdens to her gentle breast,
All doubts that fill my waking hours,
All troubles that beset my rest:
Whate'er the griefs, her prayerful eyes
Shine with no shadow of surprise.

I think if angels took her hand
And led her where God's pastures are,
And knelt her at His feet, He swift
Would frame her in a splendid star,
And place her in a sea of light
To cheer and gladden all the night.

She is so sweet, so true, so pure,
If all the varied speech of earth
Were mine to tell her goodness by,
I could not falter half her worth:
God made her, loved her, found her true,
That is enough for me and you.

Only, life grows more beautiful
While she walks with us unafraid,
Interpreting with saintly speech
The heaven in which her soul hath stayed;
Impressing still its finer sense
Upon our dull intelligence.

I tremble at the day to come
When she, my Dearest, will depart;
And I bereft . . with feet that stray.
Loving, compassionate as Thou art,
I pray as one in danger durst,
Take me to Thee, kind Lord, the first.