If a soul for but seven days were cast out of heaven and its mirth,
They would seem to her fears like as seventy years upon earth.
Even and morrow should seem to her sorrow as long
As the passage of numberless ages in slumberless song.
Dawn, roused by the lark, would be surely as dark in her sight
As her measureless measure of shadowless pleasure was bright.
Noon, gilt but with glory of gold, would be hoary and grey
In her eyes that had gazed on the depths, unamazed with the day.
Night hardly would seem to make darker her dream never done,
When it could but withhold what a man may behold of the sun.
For dreams would perplex, were the days that should vex her but seven,
The sight of her vision, made dark with division from heaven.
Till the light on my lonely way lighten that only now gleams,
I too am divided from heaven and derided of dreams.