Page:Poems Craik.djvu/245

Each turning round a small sweet face
 As beautiful as near;
Because it is so small a face
 We will not see it clear:

We will not clasp it as it flies,
 And kiss its lips and brow:
We will not bathe our wearied souls
 In its delicious Now.

And so it turns from us, and goes
 Away in sad disdain:
Though we would give oar lives for it,
 It never comes again.

Yet, every day has its dawn,
 Its noontide and its eve:
Live while we live, giving God thanks—
 He will not let us grieve.