TO THEE ABOVE.

Up from the gray of earth,

Over the hills of blue,

Out in the purpling west,

I come, my love, to you.

Oh not in the busy marts

Nor yet in the crowded throng;

No, not ’neath the parlor lights

Does my heart forget its song.

But bound by the fetters there,

I cannot choose but stay;

Like a restive steed bound fast,

I fret the hours away.

’Tis only when alone

I find my soul at rest;

’Tis then I rise to thee

Amid the purpling west.

And sitting thus this eve

Atop my house’s tower,

I send my soul in love

To dwell with thee this hour.

Oh ever thus I stand,

A crag ’mid noisy crowds,—

My feet upon the sands,

My head amid the clouds.

My heart to all is cold

Save but to thee, Sweet Heart!

For Death my requiem tolled

When thou and I didst part.

I know nor rest nor peace,

I find nor life nor love

Save but the silent hour

I fly to thee above.