Classic Poem

Love, to be love, must walk Thy way
And work Thy Will;
Or if Thou say, " Lie still, "
Lie still and pray.

Love, Thine own Bride, with all her might
Will follow Thee,
And till the shadows flee
Keep Thee in sight.

Love will not mar her peaceful face
With cares undue,
Faithless and hopeless too
And out of place.

Love, knowing Thou much more art Love,
Will sun her grief,
And pluck her myrtle-leaf,
And be Thy dove.

Love here hath vast beatitude:
What shall be hers
Where there is no more curse,
But all is good?