Perchance in slow procession to meet,
Wearily, wearily;
In an antique, narrow, high-gabled street,
Wearily, wearily;
Thy dark eyes lifted to mine, and then
Heavily sinking to earth again.
Sunshine and air! warmness and spring!
Merrily, merrily!
Back to its cell each weary thing,
Wearily, wearily!
And the heart so withered and dry and old,
Most at home in the cloister cold.
Thou on thy knees at the vespers’ call,
Wearily, wearily;
I looking up on the darkening wall,
Wearily, wearily;
The chime so sweet to the boat at sea,
Listless and dead to thee and me!
Then to the lone couch at death of day,
Wearily, wearily;
Rising at midnight again to pray
Wearily, wearily;
And if through the dark those eyes looked in,
Sending them far as a thought of sin.
And then when thy spirit was passing away,
Dreamily, dreamily;
The earth-born dwelling returning to clay,
Sleepily, sleepily;
Over thee held the crucified Best,
But no warm face to thy cold cheek pressed.
And when my spirit was passing away,
Dreamily, dreamily;
The gray head lying ’mong ashes gray
Sleepily, sleepily;
No hovering angel-woman above
Waiting to clasp me in deathless love.
But now, beloved, thy hand in mine,
Peacefully, peacefully;
My arm around thee, my lips on thine,
Lovingly, lovingly,—
Oh! is not a better thing to us given
Than wearily going alone to heaven?
George Macdonald.
A BALLADE OF COLOURS.
SHE went with morning down the wood
Between the green and blue;
The sunlight on the grass was good,
And all the year was new.
There Love came o’er the flowers to her,
A goodly sight to see
From crownèd hair to wing-feather;
“Arise and come with me.”