I Must Not Think Of Thee; And, Tired Yet Strong, I Shun The Thought That Lurks In All Delight-- The Thought Of Thee--And In The Blue Heaven'S Height, And In The Sweetest Passage Of A Song. Oh, Just Beyond The Fairest Thoughts That Throng This Breast, The Thought Of Thee Waits, Hidden Yet Bright; But It Must Never, Never Come In Sight; I Must Stop Short Of Thee The Whole Day Long. But When Sleep Comes To Close Each Difficult Day, When Night Gives Pause To The Long Watch I Keep, And All My Bonds I Needs Must Loose Apart, Must Doff My Will As Raiment Laid Away,-- With The First Dream That Comes With The First Sleep I Run, I Run, I Am Gathered To Thy Heart.