Sweet, though death may have thee utterly,
Thou art with me:
For when I sleep, mine ear
Wakes for thy voice, to hear
Thee; and I know at last that thou art near.
My soul then seems to put out hands,
At thy commands,
Through the thin veils of flesh
That hold it in a mesh,
For thy two hands to consecrate afresh.
Thoughts that all day are hidden deep
Rise up in sleep:
The reconciling night
Holds thee for my delight,
Beyond the senses or of sound or sight.