FAR, and how far it is not mine to tell, The hills of silken grey Enfold the vale, and yet above that fell The Shepherd knows a way.
Far, and how far it is not mine to guess, A sea of hungry waves Surrounds me, but the Pilot thwarts their stress With skill that guides and saves.
Far, and how far is all unknown to me, The many mansions lie Beyond the grave, yet will the Builder see And come to meet my cry.
SAY what good-bye We owe to those who lived unstained by guile, Who seemed to die, But made their death a smile, As though to promise we should meet within A little while.
Is this good-bye, To sorrow o’er the blood-red pall of day, Till in the sky Faint tapers coldly pray; And think our joy died like the buried sun’s Last golden ray?
Is this good-bye, To tread on sallow leaves in autumn rain, And hear winds sigh An echo of our pain; And think that never can the bud-crowned spring Return again?
Is this good-bye, To watch the myriad falling flakes of snow Whirl down and lie Upon the fields below; And think the wonted path is now too dim For us to know?
Not so: good-bye Means faith in love kept warm by robes of white, Faith to deny The death of any light, Faith that to-morrow will be yesterday Without its night.
ERE we shall touch the jasper parapet, That God has set About His garden and the sea of glass, Shall we first pass Through some calm stream of soft forgetfulness And wash our hapless little joys away? And shall our souls in infant nakedness Emerge to bathe in God’s eternal day?
Shall we forget the garden roundelays Of piping Mays, When thrushes sang around the dewy lawns In roseleaf dawns, And tulips—purple, saffron, red and white,— Below the shade of box and fragrant bay, Would lift to heaven their well-poised heads, as bright As ever bloomed in Shiraz or Cathay?
Shall we forget the music of the sea, The virgin glee Which swayed beneath her robes dyed emerald, And so enthralled The vernal sun that he would downward shower More silver on her violet crystal fringe Than ever Sultan made his daughter’s dower Or locked in Istamboul with key and hinge?
Shall we forget our hearts did ever ache And slowly break, Because a dream by lightning truth was rent, Or we had spent A love too deep for one whole life to speak To gain a joy which proved too light to stay, As quickly fading as the tulip’s cheek, As fickle as the sea in witching May?