WHEREIN HE ANTICIPATES THEIR MOMENTARY REUNION

From hour to hour I seem to hear her calling —
My Lady calling! Gladly would I answer!
I feel decay within me like a cancer;
And am so changed — with more than gray years crawling —
Mine own eyes find me foreign and appalling
Like some old ghost, some withered necromancer;
How long must I pipe on or play the dancer
In this unholy jest with phantoms brawling?
O day of my deliverance when this prison
Shall split, the rock burst and I stand up-risen,
Shedding this flesh so onerous and frail!

WHEREIN HE KNOWS HER BELOVED OF THE LORD

The incandescent skin, the loveliest eyes
That ever flamed, and that incredible hair
Whereto no gold, no sun's gold could compare;
That smile — like light; that voice whose rich surprise
Ambushed the listener with silver cries;
White hands and little moon-stained feet that were
Softer than silence; body woven of air
Conceived under the ribs of Paradise —
These fed my soul: sightless and stripped I stand
In hope of her and Heaven whose King of Kings

WHEREIN HE CRAVES THE SWIFT RECOMPENSE OF HER INTERCESSION AS REWARD FOR HIS TRUE AND LONG LOVE

Lady, that blissfully with God may glitter
By virtue of surpassing charms and graces,
Thou art enthroned now in the golden places,
With more than pearls adorned, with purple fitter
A princes of the Lord: Ah, loveliest sitter
On the celestial dais, through Him that traces
The secret breast, regard my heart whose basis
Of love and faith my songs prove, my tears bitter.
Know, also, at the last how my heart only

WHEREIN HE SEEMS TO SEE LAURA IMPATIENTLY AWAITING, SEEMS TO HEAR HER CALLING HIM

Elected angels and the souls elected,
Celestial citizens as to Confession
When Laura came, clustered in bright procession,
Their awe and wonder in their eyes reflected.
" What flame is this? What strange new star projected
Unto our sight? " So runs their sweet expression,
" In this vile age no soul made such progression
To our pure heights from foul earth so infected. "
Delighted with her proud immortal station,
She quite outdazzles every seraph, though

WHEREIN HE REPENTS HIS EXCESS OF GRIEF, BEING CONSOLED SOMEWHAT BY THE REMEMBRANCE OF HER CELESTIAL BLISS

Love and engrossing grief compelled my tongue
To fiery trespass where it should not rove,
So that of her who burns me with my love
I sang what, were it true, should not be sung.
That radiant spirit and my spirit wrung
With wretchedness might each the other prove;
And hers might hallow mine as might a dove
Quiet the clamour of the lion's lung.
She has gone home: that comforts and assures me,
Nor would I win her back to worldly doom;

WHEREIN HIS TORMENTS PLAGUE HIM PAST ALL HOPE OF RELIEF

Perhaps there was a time when love was sweet —
Though when, I scarce remember; now it grows
Bitter as gall. Who learns from living knows,
As I have learned, that grief is stubborn meat.
Ah, she, who was our era's Paraclete,
Who now adorns the beatific Rose,
Has cheated weariness of the one repose
It knew alive — now fled on phantom feet!
Remorseless Death has stripped and left me stark;
Nor can her liberated spirit heal
With its large bliss the agony I feel.

WHEREIN HER VISIONARY PRESENCE, HOWSOEVER INFREQUENT, RENDERS HIS GRIEF ENDURABLE

To that pure look which honours Paradise,
That head bent sideways with its weight of gold,
That face, that voice now warm, now liquid cold,
Which lulled me once, but prompts my present sighs —
Ah, when to these my foolish fancy flies,
I greatly marvel that I am not mold
Long since! But she sustains, her hands uphold
My heart, and with the dawn she decks my eyes.
How tranquil is each attitude, how meek!
With what apparent pity she attends

WHEREIN THE APPARITION OF LAURA GENTLY REBUKES AND HEARTENS HIM

With tears and dolour from the Seigneur's hoard
I constantly renew my heart's despair;
I feel age gray me over as I stare
Often upon Love's wound, Love's red reward.
But she, in loveliness the sovereign sword
Of all her sex, on whom I hardly dare
To look — sits by my bed, smooths my dank hair,
The piteous angel of a difficult Lord.
And that hand, that long-hungered-for white hand
Restrains my tears, while at her tones I soar,
My soul revives, my soul moves and can stand

WHEREIN HE REJOICES THAT HIS PRAYER IS ANSWERED

What pity-driven angel proved his speed
To swoop through middle Heaven with my appeal?
Instantly, though I hear not, I can feel
My lady's step responsive to my need;
She shines too bright for pride, being rich indeed
With rapt humility whose strength can steal
My life from Death itself, and raise and heal
Till Life goes radiant, having her to lead.
How blessed are that face, that small strong hand
Stretched out! O Christ! The little phrase! It gnaws!
But only Love and I can understand.

NONE REALIZED HER TRUE WORTH WHILE SHE LIVED, SAVE HIMSELF AND HEAVEN

Death, thou hast turned this world into a hell
Sunless and bleak; Love blinded and disarmed;
Laughter stripped stark; Beauty with eyes alarmed;
My heart a songless tree, an empty shell;
Gay honour, golden courtesy as well.
I only weep — though the whole world is harmed;
The world should weep, the elements overswarmed
With Death... O beat the drums! O sound the bell!
Earth, ocean, air with mutual tongue lament
Our stricken breed, for Laura's passing leaves