Sonnet XXXIV.

My sister, we have lived long years apart,
Our mutual visits short and far between,
Like those of angels, yet we have not been
Divided, as I trust, in mind or heart.
Pale now and changed, though in thy prime thou art,
And in the chasten'd sweetness of thy mien
I read the workings of a soul serene
And patient under pain's life-wasting smart.
May God be with thee, and thy sojourn bless
Near Cheltenham's healing springs, that they may be
E'en as Bethesda's wondrous pool to thee,
Giving thee back lost health and loveliness;
While yet He purifies thy heart no less
By blest affliction's subtlest alchymy.