My Saint

Oh long the weary vigils since you left me—
In your far home, I wonder, can you know
To what dread uttermost your loss bereft me,
Or half it meant to me that you should go?

This world is full, indeed, of fair hopes perished,
And loves more fleet than this poor fleeting breath;
But that deep heart in which my heart was cherished
Must surely have survived what we call Death.

They cannot cease—our own true dead—to love us,
And you will hear this far-off cry of mine,
Though you keep holiday so high above us,
Where all the happy spirits sing and shine.

Steal back to me to-night, from your far dwelling,
Beyond the pilgrim moon, beyond the sun:
They will not miss your single voice for swelling
Their rapture-chorus—you are only one.

Ravish my soul, as with divine embraces;
Teach me, if Life is false, that Death is true;
With pledge of new delights in heavenly places
Entice my spirit,—take me hence with you!
Rate this poem: 


No reviews yet.