Yea, we lie dead for need of rest
And so the soul drifts out and o’er
The vast still waters to the shore
Beyond, in pleasant, tranquil quest:
It sails straight on, forgetting pain,
Past isles of peace, to perfect rest,—
Now were it best abide, or best
Return and take up life again?
And that is all of death there is,
Believe me. If you find your love
In that far land, then like the dove
Abide, and turn not back to this.
But if you find your love not there;
Or if your feet feel sure, and you
Have still allotted work to do,—
Why, then return to toil and care.
Death is no mystery. ’T is plain
If death be mystery, then sleep
Is mystery thrice strangely deep,—
For oh this coming back again!
Austerest ferryman of souls!
I see the gleam of solid shores,
I hear thy steady stroke of oars
Above the wildest wave that rolls.
O Charon, keep thy sombre ships!
We come, with neither myrrh nor balm,
Nor silver piece in open palm,
But lone white silence on our lips.
VII.
She prays so long! she prays so late!
What sin in all this flower-land
Against her supplicating hand
Could have in heaven any weight?
Prays she for her sweet self alone?
Prays she for some one far away,
Or some one near and dear to-day,
Or some poor, lorn, lost soul unknown?