AD CINARAM

By Frederic Manning

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.