THE RETREAT

Some sunny close hung high

In depths of sky,

Vivid presentment of your old desire;

No multitudes, but peace

And the release

From days and nights that are but pitch and fire.

Some simple garden, old

Gray walls that fold

Its fragrance in, and one slow softened bell;

The waited Face, the light

And inner sight

And the good voices that you heard so well.

There may you quaintly move,—

You whom I love,—

Sometimes, even now, and make retreat at last

With the truth known and rest

Made manifest

And all the meaning of the hurried past.

And may I find you there

When the still air

Holds yet the thrilling of His evening smile,

And stand within the gate

And watch and wait,

Till, from your prayer, you turn after a while

To see me stained and torn

And travel-worn

But yet with all my love of you held fast;

And wonder “Is it he?” and know it is —

All mysteries

Being outdone by this mysterious last.

And as the evening glows

In throbbing rose

May you lift your arms then, lift your head and cry

“Come!” — and yet sleep not wake

Nor dreaming break —

But light forever fold us, you and I.