Give me the chance, and I will make
  Thy thoughts of me, like worms this day,
Take wings and change to butterflies
  That in the golden light shall play;
Thy cold, clear heart — the quiet pool
  That never heard Love's nightingale —
Shall hear his music night and day,
  And in no seasons shall it fail.

I'll make thy happy heart my port,
  Where all my thoughts are anchored fast;
Thy meditations, full of praise,
  The flags of glory on each mast.
I'll make my Soul thy shepherd soon,
  With all thy thoughts my grateful flock;
And thou shalt say, each time I go —
  How long, my Love, ere thou'lt come back?