Unto that cross, that shrine, that world apart,
Where faithful blood hath sanctified the ground;
And love with death striven long by tear and prayer,
And anguish frozen into still despair.
Yet on her spirit hath arisen at last
A light, a joy, of its own wanderings born;
Around her path a vision’s glow is cast,
Back, back her lost one comes in hues of morn![397]
For her the gulf is fill’d—the dark night fled,
Whose mystery parts the living and the dead.