Now while her spirit weightless overwingeth
Night, to that Throne whose seeing heals all shame!
For her I did! but oh, for you, whose least
Murmur to me is infinite with Spring,
Whose smile is light, filling the air with dawn,
Whose touch, wafture of immortality
Unto my weariness; and whose eyes, now,
Are as the beams God lifted first, they tell us,
Over the uncreated,
In the far singing mother-dawn of the world!—
Come with me then, but tearless, to her side.
(They go to the bier and stand as in a dream. A pause; then her lips move, last, as if inspired.)
While there is sin to sway the soul and sink it
Pity should be as strong as love or death!
(With a cry of joy he enfolds her, and they kneel, wrapped about with the clear moon.)
The End.