<h2>XLII</h2>
<p>My future will not copy fair my past—<br/>
I wrote that once; and thinking at my side<br/>
My ministering life-angel justified<br/>
The word by his appealing look upcast<br/>
To the white throne of God, I turned at last,<br/>
And there, instead, saw thee, not unallied<br/>
To angels in thy soul! Then I, long tried<br/>
By natural ills, received the comfort fast,<br/>
While budding, at thy sight, my pilgrim’s staff<br/>
Gave out green leaves with morning dews impearled.<br/>
I seek no copy now of life’s first half:<br/>
Leave here the pages with long musing curled,<br/>
And write me new my future’s epigraph,<br/>
New angel mine, unhoped for in the world!</p>
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