I went at sunset up the lane,
I lingered by the stile;
I saw the dusky fields that stretched
Before me many a mile.
I leaned against the stile, and thought
Of her whose soul had fled.—
I knew that years on years must pass
Or e’er I should be dead.
In September.
THE sky is silver-grey; the long
Slow waves caress the shore.—
On such a day as this I have been glad,
Who shall be glad no more.
I sent my Soul through the Invisible
Some letter of that After-life to spell;
And by and by my Soul returned to me,
And answered, “I Myself am Heaven and Hell.”
Omar Khayyám