wilt thou come to tell me I may go? Athwart acacia-bloom? Across the snow? Wilt come when slip the swallows to their eaves? Or will thy step draw nigh on russet leaves?
Chilled to the heart, I sigh that aught should stay
The feet I listen for by night, by day: Thrilled to the soul, I cry, "This hour, this year, Must bring thee nearer, and may bring thee near!"
Life is not life and love scarce love may be, Before from pain and stain by thee made free: Whom thou hast healed, with him all things are well, O mightiest, tenderest angel — Azraël!
Timed by God's dial shall thy shadow fall
On each incarnate spirit's prison wall —
Thy long kiss hush all moan — thy strong hand press
Back the last bar that holdeth in durèss.
