Classic Poem

My soul, if e'er your eyes were moist,
If cares have ever vexed your brow;
My songs, if you have ever voiced
A single, tender “thou”;
My heart, if e'er you have rejoiced
Be buoyant now.

My soul, how could you ever doubt
That she was less than all divine;
My heart and songs, how could ye flout
My worship at her shrine;
For I am hers—oh sing it out—
And she is mine.