I know the splendour that you were—
—You shall be;
I see that nothing is so fair
As you there;
I know that you—the thing I crave—
Men shall see
Again, when I am in the grave,
—After me.
O, whose shall be the barren years?
Whose the tears?
God, who of all this world of ours
Gathers flowers
—Taketh and maketh heaven, and faileth
Not at all,
Maketh a heaven that prevaileth
Out of all—
Shall God have care for this and this
—Flowers that miss
The love that gathers and that saves?
For these graves,
Shall love to be, or love that’s past,
Safe above,
Be less than perfected at last,
Less than Love?
O, who shall have the barren years?
Who the tears?
You, World that gave me a false kiss,
Shall have this:
But I—I know that Love hath been,
And shall be
Again, when I am no more seen,
—After me.
II.
I SEE You with the face they paint
For some saint
Born and saved in some sublime
Olden time,
Crowned with the gorgeous golden-waved
Aureole;
Just such a saint as should have saved
My own soul.
Yes; for you have the human grace
In your face
Painted upon the panel there,
And what hair!
‘Fra’—who was he? I forget—
Who could paint
Such a woman wholly, and yet
Such a saint?
From the dim cathedral height
Falls the light;
I could think it for a while
Christ’s smile
From the great window-scene above
Strangely shed
Toward you, resting like Christ’s love
On your head.
O the splendid purple niche
Deep and rich,
Stained of the colour of your soul
Strong and whole,
Full of the prevalence of prayers
And piteous plaint
You made for men and sins all theirs
—You a saint!
The niche a little narrow: well,
As the cell
Your world, your body—all things seen—
Must have been
About the soul that day by day
Groped and felt
To God’s own house and found the way
As you knelt: