C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Come, Rest in this Bosom

COME, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer:

Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;

Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,

And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.

Oh, what was love made for, if ’tis not the same

Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame?

I know not, I ask not, if guilt’s in that heart,—

I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art.

Thou hast called me thy angel in moments of bliss,

And thy angel I’ll be through the horrors of this:

Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue,

And shield thee, and save thee, or perish there too!