MY future will not copy fair my past
 On any leaf but Heaven's. Be fully done,
 Supernal Will ! I would not fain be one
 Who, satisfying thirst and breaking fast
 Upon the fulness of the heart, at last
 Saith no grace after meat. My wine hath run
 Indeed out of my cup, and there is none
 To gather up the bread of my repast
 Scattered and trampled ! Yet I find some good
In earth's green herbs, and streams that bubble up
Clear from the darkling ground, -- content until
I sit with angels before better food.
Dear Christ ! when thy new vintage fills my cup,
This hand shall shake no more, nor that wine spill.