What matters it? The night is gone;
Right joyous shines the sun;
The same clear sun that always shone
Ere sorrow had begun.
Oh! any name may come and bide,
If he be well content
To see not seldom by his side
Thy head serenely bent.
Thou, sharing in the awful doom,
Wilt help thy Lord to die;
And, mourning o'er his empty tomb,
First share his victory.
XIII.
THE WOMAN IN THE TEMPLE.
A still dark joy. A sudden face,
Cold daylight, footsteps, cries;
The temple's naked, shining space,
Aglare with judging eyes.
With all thy wild abandoned hair,
And terror-pallid lips,
Thy blame unclouded to the air,
Thy honour in eclipse;
Thy head, thine eyes droop to the ground,
Thy shrinking soul to hide;
Lest, at its naked windows found,
Its shame be all descried.
Another shuts the world apart,
Low bending to the ground;
And in the silence of his heart,
Her Father's voice will sound.
He stoops, He writes upon the ground,
From all those eyes withdrawn;
The awful silence spreads around
In that averted dawn.