CXVI. Is it, then, regret for buried time Not all the songs, the stirring air, Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust Not all regret the face will shine Upon me, while I muse alone; And that dear voice, I once have known, Still speak to me of me and mine : Yet less of sorrow lives in me For days of happy commune dead; Less yearning for the friendship fled Than some strong bond which is to be. CXXIV. That which we dare invoke to bless : I found him not in world or sun, Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye; " If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep, A warmth within the breast would melt No, like a child in doubt and fear: And what I am beheld again What is, and no man understands; And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro' nature, moulding men. CXXXI. O LIVING will that shalt endure When all that seems shall suffer shock, Flow thro' our deeds and make them pure, That we may lift from out of dust With faith that comes of self-control, The truths that never can be proved Until we close with all we loved, And all we flow from, soul in soul. STRAY LINES FROM IN MEMORIAM. And what delights can equal those When one that loves but knows not, reaps I hold it true, what e'er befall, Dear heavenly friend that canst not die, God's finger touch'd him, and he slept. There no shade can last In that deep dawn behind the tomb The glory of the sum of things And love will last as pure and whole But trust that those we call the dead Can clouds of nature stain The starry clearness of the free? And lightly does the whisper fall; And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought. |