Classic Poem

The bliss of Heaven, Maria, shall be thine!
Joy link'd to joy by amaranthine bond!
And a fair harp of many strings divine
Shall meet thy touch with unimagined sound!
Meek angel-hood shall dwell within thine eye,
Fed by the action of thy purer soul;
Thy brow shall beam with fairer dignity—
No more thy cheek shall blench with Care's control,
Nor yield its hues to changes of the heart,
That beats with plenitude of life and woe—
Taking all dyes that sorrow can impart,
Or ever-shifting circumstance bestow:
The prey of present pangs or after-smart,
For ever feeling pain or missing bliss below.