The incense trembled as it upward sent Its slow, uncertain thread of wandering blue, As 't were the only living element In all the church, so deep the stillness grew, It seemed one might have heard it, as it went, Give out an audible rustle, curling through The midnight silence of that awe-struck air, More hushed than death, though so much life was there.
Nothing they saw, but a low voice was heard Threading the ominous silence of that fear, Gentle and terrorless as if a bird, Wakened by some volcano's glare, should cheer The murk air with his song; yet every word In the cathedral's farthest arch seemed near As if it spoke to every one apart, Like the clear voice of conscience in each heart.
"O Rest, to weary hearts thou art most dear! O Silence, after life's bewildering din, Thou art most welcome, whether in the sear Days of our age thou comest, or we win Thy poppy-wreath in youth! then wherefore here Linger I yet, once free to enter in At that wished gate which gentle Death doth ope, Into the boundless realm of strength and hope?
"Think not in death my love could ever cease; If thou wast false, more need there is for me Still to be true; that slumber were not peace, If 't were unvisited with dreams of thee: And thou hadst never heard such words as these, Save that in heaven I must ever be Most comfortless and wretched, seeing this Our unbaptizèd babe shut out from bliss.
"This little spirit with imploring eyes Wanders alone the dreary wild of space; The shadow of his pain forever lies Upon my soul in this new dwelling-place; His loneliness makes me in Paradise More lonely, and, unless I see his face, Even here for grief could I lie down and die, Save for my curse of immortality.
"World after world he sees around him swim Crowded with happy souls, that take no heed Of the sad eyes that from the night's faint rim Gaze sick with longing on them as they speed With golden gates, that only shut out him; And shapes sometimes from Hell's abysses freed Flap darkly by him, with enormous sweep Of wings that roughen wide the pitchy deep.
"I am a mother,--spirits do not shake This much of earth from them,--and I must pine Till I can feel his little hands, and take His weary head upon this heart of mine; And, might it be, full gladly for his sake Would I this solitude of bliss resign, And be shut out of Heaven to dwell with him Forever in that silence drear and dim.