Still unto thee, my brightest, fairest, best,
The wandering heart returns as the pure dove
Seeking in vain the olive-branch of love,
Nor finding peace save in its ark of rest.
My flight has been wide, o’er the tossing wave:
Nor bower, nor tree, nor mantling vine were there;
And like rich pearls deep in their ocean cave,
Were hidden all things beautiful and fair.
Send me not forth again, though the fair sky
Smile o’er the green enameling of earth;
Bright joys again be clustered round the hearth,
And the air rife with breathing melody;
Still to its resting-place the dove would flee; -
Angel of beauty! shall it dwell with thee?
The wandering heart returns as the pure dove
Seeking in vain the olive-branch of love,
Nor finding peace save in its ark of rest.
My flight has been wide, o’er the tossing wave:
Nor bower, nor tree, nor mantling vine were there;
And like rich pearls deep in their ocean cave,
Were hidden all things beautiful and fair.
Send me not forth again, though the fair sky
Smile o’er the green enameling of earth;
Bright joys again be clustered round the hearth,
And the air rife with breathing melody;
Still to its resting-place the dove would flee; -
Angel of beauty! shall it dwell with thee?