Classic Poem

Your little gift-box, dear, I own,
With all the treasures in it;
But fairer far the face that shone
On me one little minute —
That glad and gracious face that makes
The dimmest place seem cheery,
And takes away a thousand aches
From hearts grown sick or weary.

I do remember how a hand
Stole tenderly unto me,
One hour when care's acute command
Had sent a shiver through me;
I do remember how that thrill
Of speechless consolation
Keeps all my pulses bounding still
In silent exaltation.

Sweet friend, thy beauty is of God,
To bless and cheer and brighten;
A bounteous sun to fling abroad
The hopes that help and lighten;
Thy heart a well-spring full and strong
A fount of generous feeling;
Thy soul a happy bird of song
Toward which our loves are stealing.