The morning flies, the evening dies; The heat of noon, the chills of night, Are but the dull varieties Of Phoebus’ and of Phoebe's flight —
Are but the dull varieties Of ruined night and ruined day; They bring no pleasure to mine eyes, For I have sent my soul away.
I am the man who cannot love, Yet once my heart was bright as thine, The suns that rove, the moons that move, No longer make its chambers shine;
No more they light the spirit face That lit my night and made my day; No maiden feet with mine keep pace For I have sent my soul away.
O, lost! I think I see thee stand, By Mary's ivied chapel door, Where once thou stood'st, and with thy hand Wring pious pain, as once before.
Impatient, crude philosopher, I scorned thy gentle wisdom's ray. All vain thy moistened eyelids were; I sent my soul and thee away.
A causeless wrath, a mood of pride, Some tears of thine, and all was done; On alien plains I travelled wide And thou wert soon a veiléd nun.
Not long a veiléd nun, but soon Unveiled of linen and of clay; But I am March while thou art June, For I have sent my soul away.
And now when I would love thee well, There sits alone within my breast Calm guilt that dare not from its hell Look up and wish the thing thou art.
I see a dreadful gulf of fright Beneath my falling life; and gray, Thy light becomes the ghost of light Above it as it falls away.
I have a life, a voice, a form, A skilful hand to lift and turn, I have emotions like a storm, A brain to throb, a heart to burn;
But that which Jesus’ blood can save, Which looks toward eternal day, Is gone before me to the grave.— It was my soul I sent away.
The past is past, and o'er its woe It is no comfort to repine; But I would wage my life to know Thy feet in heaven keep pace with mine.
I have no hope, I will not weep, The only wish that wish I may Is this, that I may find asleep The soul I thought I sent away.
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