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?
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