I

Keeping the lonely watch for thee, for thee
Whose year's novitiate of Paradise
To all our longing is but mystery,
I saw a silver dawn. The sacrifice
Glowed from a cloud-veiled altar, while there fleeted
A troop of white, adoring lustres by,
So fair, so fain, that mortal grief retreated
As an intruder on that orient sky;
And joy came thrilling through the morning's breath,
Perchance a greeting from thy bliss of death.

II

If it be slumber as we saw thee sleep,
Flushed with the loveliness of life, but blest
From pain and sorrow, sinking still more deep
Into some soft profound of utter rest;
A slumber mystical as this entrancing
Forevermore in crystal, hid repose
The face from which a thousand lights went glancing,
Swift hands so quiet 'neath their faded rose,
By all the nights we have found slumber sweet,
Shall we not trust that dove-winged Paraclete?

III

Thou art not of the shadows, ah, not thou,
Our Dryad soul, the soul of April woods
Where flames of color, caught from bough to bough,
And winds of fragrance blend beatitudes.
Not in the withered groves whose phantoms follow
Like drifted leaves the feet of Proserpine,
Not in the whispering midnights dim and hollow,
Shall love re-capture that lost grace of thine;
Beauty and light are with thee where thou art;
We grope thy pathway by the haunted heart.

IV

If death be life, again the vibrant stress
Of joy and hope, wonder and love and dream,
An ecstasy more poignant, yet no less
A beat of baffled wings, a fading gleam;
The urge of the Eternal through a higher
Rapture of being, thou who lovedst so
This earth-adventure, thou whose last desire
Yearned toward thine Italy, dost thou not go
With shining steps to find that fairer star,
Blithe of the journey as God's pilgrims are?

V

On golden streets I cannot hear thy tread,
Nor deem how tenderest touch, albeit divine,
May wipe away the tears which still were shed,
Our Pitiful, for every woe but thine.
Nay, is it sweeter, Dear, that hidden manna,
Than was our daily bread to thee, to thee
Whose voice must falter in the glad hosanna,
While the Four Angels hurt the earth and sea?
Draw near St. Francis till the doom is done
Of that fourth trumpet darkening Brother Sun.

VI

Thy crown of life, resplendent with the sheen
Of clustered stars or rainbow though it be,
Wouldst thou not change for woven one of green
Plucked from the branches of that holy tree
Whose leaves are for the healing of the nations?
Dost thou not watch from heaven's untroubled height
With wistful eyes thy restless earth's mutations,
Its colored day, its blur and blot of night,
Till God hath smiled thee forth with Raphael
To minister once more where mortals dwell?

VII

If death hath done its worst, — annulled the soul;
If thou art vanished like a bubble, blown
To praise the light one instant; if the goal
Of all our striving is oblivion;
Alas, our thrush, can happiness be wrested
From love so smitten desolate, — can they,
The summer boughs wherein thy music nested,
Be glad of song when song is flown away?
Can stormy wind and hail, that slay the bird,
Fulfil in us His great, exultant word?

VIII

Perchance not God Himself can slay the soul
That is Himself in myriad avatar;
Disguised in dust, we wear the aureole
Of His divinity; in Him we are.
When by His thunder-stroke the veil was riven,
This glamour of the senses we misname,
Didst thou, O spirit from His splendor given,
Ray of His glory, meet Him in the flame?
Even while we keep this dream of sky and sod,
Are we not with thee in the heart of God?

IX

The book of death, though sealed with seven seals,
Is in the hand of Him upon the throne,
And as a father with his children deals,
So the All-Father pitieth His own.
Yea, peradventure as a father covers
Some rare surprisal till the gift-dawn be,
The silent cloud that o'er our pathway hovers
Shieldeth strange joy, familiar now to thee,
To thee, our fleet forerunner, who hast made
Nearness of distance, radiance of shade.