Seven Times Five.—Widowhood
I sleep and rest, my heart makes moan
Before I am well awake;
“Let me bleed! O let me alone,
Since I must not break!”
For children wake, though fathers sleep
With a stone at foot and at head:
O sleepless God, forever keep,
Keep both living and dead!
I lift mine eyes, and what to see
But a world happy and fair!
I have not wished it to mourn with me,—
Comfort is not there.
Oh, what anear but golden brooms,
But a waste of reedy rills!
Oh, what afar but the fine glooms
On the rare blue hills!
I shall not die, but live forlore,—
How bitter it is to part!
Oh, to meet thee, my love, once more!
O my heart, my heart!
No more to hear, no more to see!
Oh, that an echo might wake
And waft one note of thy psalm to me
Ere my heart-strings break!
I should know it how faint soe’er,
And with angel voices blent;
Oh, once to feel thy spirit anear;
I could be content!
Or once between the gates of gold,
While an entering angel trod,
But once,—thee sitting to behold
On the hills of God!
