I know thou art true, and I know thou art fair
As the rose-bud that blooms in thy beautiful hair;
Thou art far, but I feel the warm throb of thy heart;
Thou art far, but I love thee wherever thou art.
Wherever at noontide my spirit may be,
At evening it silently wanders to thee;
It seeks thee, my dear one, for comfort and rest,
As the weary-winged dove seeks at night-fall her nest.
Through the battle of life — through its sorrow and care —
Till the mortal sink down with its load of despair,—
Till we meet at the feet of the Father and Son,
I'll love thee and cherish thee, beautiful one.