Mabel

There is no angel but the angel Death Could sever me from thee who art all my life! What Heaven is there but that which Love creates? What songs of Bliss, save those by Love intoned? Ah! thou to me art as the sun to Day, That dies out with its setting utterly— Thou art the ever-flowing crystal spring, That keeps the fountain of my being full— Thou art the heart that beats with measured pulse The joyous moments of my flowing life— Leave thee? How canst thou wrong me with the thought?