Constancy

Sickness hath laid his hand upon thy brow,
     And snatched the liquid lustre from thine eye,
     And thy attenuate form moves languidly—
Yet to my spirit thou art dearer now
In thy frail helplessness, than when the glow
     Of health was on thy cheek, and every limb
Was life and action. Though Disease may dim
The beauty of thy girlhood, and may throw
     Paleness o’er every feature, its control
     Cannot obscure the lustre of thy soul—
That shall grow brighter as its fragile frame
     Weareth away—and Love, which is to thee
A portion of thy spirit, still shall be
Deathless as that, and pure—a bright, celestial flame!