Thy Picture
By George Sterling
Withold, O God! the guerdon of my sight
Or of Thy mercy grant me strength to bear
This final dream of beauty unaware,
This star of stars in all the mortal night!
Alas! her utter loveliness! What might
Shall I not go mad, who know too well
Of her effacing and elysian hair?
Nay! Let me die there, lost within her light!
God, shall I not go mad, who know too well
That past these gates of fair and glorious dwell
Divinities of soul surpassing all
That sight shall ever fathom of her grace?
Alas! what voices of enchantment call
To Love grown sad with gazing on her face!
Written in Sag Harbor.