David Atwood Wasson (1823–1887)

AS unto blowing roses summer dews,

Or morning’s amber to the tree-top choirs,

So to my bosom are the beams that use

To rain on me from eyes that love inspires.

Your love,—vouchsafe it, royal-hearted few,

And I will set no common price thereon,

O, I will keep, as heaven his holy blue,

Or night her diamonds, that dear treasure won.

But aught of inward faith must I forego,

Or miss one drop from truth’s baptismal hand,

Think poorer thoughts, pray cheaper prayers, and grow

Less worthy trust, to meet your heart’s demand,—

Farewell! Your wish I for your sake deny:

Rebel to love, in truth to love, am I.