From the Newark Evening Star, March 6, 1915. By Bret Harte.

O joy of creation
    To be!
O rapture to fly
    And be free!
Be the battle lost or won,
Though its smoke shall hide the sun,
I shall find my love—the one
    Born for me!

I shall know him where he stands
    All alone
With the power in his hands
    Not o’erthrown;
I shall know him by his face
By his godlike front and grace;
I shall hold him for a space
    All my own!

It is he—O my love!
    So bold!
It is I—all thy love
    Foretold!
It is I! O love! What bliss!
Dost thou answer to my kiss?
O sweetheart! What is this
    Lieth there so cold?