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B. Fairchild
Were all the heavens an overladen bough
Of ripened benediction lowered above me,
What could I crave, soul-satisfied as now
That thou dost love me?
The door is shut. To each unsheltered Blessing
Henceforth I say, "Depart! What would'st thou of me?"
Beggared I am of want, this boon possessing,
That thou dost love me.