Some sunny close hung high
In depths of sky,
Vivid presentment of your old desire;
No multitudes, but peace
And the release
From days and nights that are but pitch and fire.
Some simple garden, old
Gray walls that fold
Its fragrance in, and one slow softened bell;
The waited Face, the light
And inner sight
And the good voices that you heard so well.
There may you quaintly move,—
You whom I love,—
Sometimes, even now, and make retreat at last
With the truth known and rest
Made manifest
And all the meaning of the hurried past.
And may I find you there
When the still air
Holds yet the thrilling of His evening smile,
And stand within the gate
And watch and wait,
Till, from your prayer, you turn after a while
To see me stained and torn
And travel-worn
But yet with all my love of you held fast;
And wonder “Is it he?” and know it is —
All mysteries
Being outdone by this mysterious last.
And as the evening glows
In throbbing rose
May you lift your arms then, lift your head and cry
“Come!” — and yet sleep not wake
Nor dreaming break —
But light forever fold us, you and I.