If only to the darken'd eye
Or dying heart, Thy will is sweet,
Blind me, O Lord, or let me die
At once beneath Thy piercèd feet;
Against my will Thy way I choose,
I wish my dearest hopes denied,
For I would love Thee, though I lose
The power of loving aught beside!
But hearts that breathe in purer air
Are like a child that finds a flower,
And wonders why it is so fair,
And wears it for one happy hour;
Then, by a father's arm embraced,
Springs to him, leans upon his breast,
And yields it, ere he ask, in haste
To give him what it loves the best.