LA PIA

Brother,‘ t were sweet your hand to feel

In mine; it would a little heal

The shame that makes me poor,

And dumb at the heart's core.

But where our spirits felt Love's dearth,

Down on the green and pleasant earth,

Remains the fleshly shell,

Love's garment tangible.

So now our hands have naught to say:

Heart unto heart some other way

Must utter forth its pain,

Must glee or comfort gain.

Ah, no! For souls like you and me

Some comfort waits, but never glee:

Not yours the young men's singing

In Heaven, at the bride-bringing;

Not mine, beside God's living waters,

Dance of the marriageable daughters,

The laughter and the ease

Beneath His summer trees.