from Diary of an Old Soul

I clasp Thy feet, O Father of the living!
Thou wilt not let my fluttering hopes be more,
Or lovelier, or greater, than Thy giving!
Surely Thy ships will bring to my poor shore,
Of gold and peacocks such a shining store
As will laugh all the dreams to holy scorn,
Of love and sorrow that were ever born.
~George MacDonald