That reaches still to bless and guard and guide,
To hold me from the snare undreamed and waiting—
To point the refuge where I yet may hide!
And, oh—the things my heart hath yearned to utter!
The joys that thrilled—the pain that seared and scarred!
But I must wait—I, too—till sunset’s splendor
Shall hold for me its shining gates unbarred.
Past joy, past sorrow, past the driving torrent
Of tears, I see her stand and watch for me;
And clear the sweet old Mother-question cometh: