Classic Poem

Not here; my roses bear too many thorns;
My gold has in it too much of alloy;
The purple of my robe too oft adorns
An aching soul; my sweets too often cloy.

Not now: the present has too much of pain—
Too much, alas, of mingled hope and fear;
I set my loss too often 'gainst my gain;
I shall be satisfied not now, not here.

But there! but then! in heaven! when I wake
In His dear likeness who for me once died!
Oh, fount of bliss! in thee once let me slake
My lifelong thirst—I shall be satisfied!