TO HER WHO SHALL COME

Out of the night of lovelessness I call

Thee, as, in a chill chamber where no rays

Of unbelievable light and freedom fall,

Might cry one manacled! And tho’ the ways

Thou'lt come I cannot see; tho’ my heart's sore

With emptiness when morning's silent grays

Wake me to long aloneness; yet I know

Thou hast been with me, who like dawn wilt go

Beside me, when I have found thee, evermore!

So in the garden of my heart each day

I plant thee a flower. Now the pansy, peace,

And now the lily, faith — or now a spray

Of the climbing ivy, hope. And they ne'er cease

Around the still unblossoming rose of love

To bend in fragrant tribute to her sway.

Then — for thy shelter from life's sultrier suns,

The oak of strength I set o'er joy that runs

With brooklet glee from winds that grieve above.

But where now art thou? Watching with love's eye

The eve-star wander? Listening through dim trees

Some thrilled muezzin of the forest cry

From his leafy minaret? Or by the sea's

Blue brim, while the spectral moon half o'er it hangs

Like the faery isle of Avalon, do these

My yearnings speak to thee of days thy feet

Have never trod?— Sweet, sweet, oh, more than sweet,

My own, must be our meeting's mystic pangs.

And will be soon! For last night near to-day,

Dreaming, God called me thro’ the space-built sphere

Of heaven and said, “Come, waiting one, and lay

Thine ear unto my Heart — there thou shalt hear

The secrets of this world where evils war.”

Such things I heard as must rend mortal clay

To tell, and trembled — till God, pitying,

Said, “Listen”... Oh, my love, I heard thee sing

Out of thy window to the morning star!