"What boundless wealth of love!" The sentence stays
And lends wan lustre to each leaded hour.
I am as one who in bleak autumn days
Recalls the beauty of his rose-wreathed bower.
I am as one who in the desert sands
Must slake his thirst on thoughts of running streams.
Or mid the ruins of his palace stands
And reconstructs it with the stuff of dreams.

That boundless wealth of ours! My own, my own,
It could not vanish into nothingness.
God must have made a strong-box of His throne,
And store it there, our future lives to bless.
Oh, my first words, when death has set me free,
Will be this cry, "The key, dear God, the key!"

Sonnets of sorrow and triumph. by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
New York: George H. Doran, 1918.

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