Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer, <br />Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here; <br />Here still is the smile, that no cloud can o'ercast, <br />And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last. <br /> <br />Oh! what was love made for, if 'tis not the same <br />Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame? <br />I know not, I ask not, if guilt's in that heart? <br />I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art. <br /> <br />Thou hast call'd me thy angel in moments of bliss, <br />And thy Angel I'd be, 'mid the horrors of this, -- <br />Through the furnace, unshrinking, thy steps to pursue, <br />And shield thee, and save thee, -- or perish there too!<br /><br />Thomas Moore<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/come-rest-in-this-bosom/
