For this, that thou prayest vain things, ’tis a far cry to Heaven, my soul,—
Oh, a far cry to Heaven!
Thou dreamest the word shall return, shot arrow-like into the air,
The wound in the breast where it lodged be balmed and closed for thy prayer,
The ear of the dead be unsealed, till thou whisper a boon once denied,
The white hour of life be restored, that passed thee unprized, undescried!—
Thy prayers are as runners that faint, that fail, within sight of the goal,
For this, that thou prayest fond things, ’tis a far cry to Heaven, my soul,—
Oh, a far cry to Heaven!
And cravest thou fondly the quivering sands shall be firm to thy feet,