Chapter I

If the dread day that calls thee hence, Through a red mist of fear should loom, (Closing in deadliest night and gloom Long hours of aching dumb suspense,) And leave me to my lonely doom.

I think, beloved, I could see In thy dear eyes the loving light Glaze into vacancy and night, And still say, "God is good to me, And all that He decrees is right."

That, watching thy slow struggling breath, And answering each imperfect sign, I still could pray thy prayer and mine, And tell thee, dear, though this was death, That God was love, and love divine.

Could hold thee in my arms, and lay Upon my heart thy weary head, And meet thy last smile ere it fled; Then hear, as in a dream, one say, "Now all is over,--she is dead."

Could smooth thy garments with fond care, And cross thy hands upon thy breast, And kiss thine eyelids down to rest, And yet say no word of despair, But, through my sobbing, "It is best."

Could stifle down the gnawing pain, And say, "We still divide our life, She has the rest, and I the strife, And mine the loss, and hers the gain: My ill with bliss for her is rife."

Then turn, and the old duties take-- Alone now--yet with earnest will Gathering sweet sacred traces still To help me on, and, for thy sake, My heart and life and soul to fill.

I think I could check vain weak tears, And toil,--although the world's great space Held nothing but one vacant place, And see the dark and weary years Lit only by a vanished grace.

And sometimes, when the day was o'er, Call up the tender past again: Its painful joy, its happy pain, And live it over yet once more, And say, "But few more years remain."

And then, when I had striven my best, And all around would smiling say, "See how Time makes all grief decay," Would lie down thankfully to rest, And seek thee in eternal day.