In the June twilight, in the lessening twilight,
My love cried from my bosom an exceeding bitter cry:
"Lord, wait a little longer, until my soul is stronger!
O wait till thou hast taught me to be content to die!"
Then the tender face, all woman, took a glory superhuman,
And she seemed to watch for something, or see some I could not see:
From my arms she rose full-statured, all transfigured, queenly-featured,—
"As thy will is done in heaven, so on earth still let it be!"
I go lonely, I go lonely, and I feel that earth is only
The vestibule of places whose courts we never win;