Page:Poems Barrett.djvu/141

Which now, at dream-time, will not
 Its cold touch disentwine?
And weepest thou still ofter,
 Oh, never more to mark
His low soft words, made softer
 By speaking in the dark?
Weep on, thou mournful mother!

But since to him when living,
 Thou wert both sun and moon,
Look o'er his grave, surviving,
 From a high sphere alone
Sustain that exaltation—
 Expand that tender light;
And hold in mother-passion,
 Thy Blessed, in thy sight.
See how he went out straightway
 From the dark world he knew,—
No twilight in the gateway
 To mediate 'twixt the two,—
Into the sudden glory,
 Out of the dark he trod,
Departing from before thee
 At once to Light and God!—
For the first face, beholding
 The Christ's in its divine,—
For the first place, the golden
 And tideless hyaline;
With trees, at lasting summer,
 That rock to songful sound,
While angels, the new-comer ,
 Wrap a still smile around!
Oh, in the blessed psalm now,
 His happy voice he tries,—
Spreading a thicker palm-bough,
 Than others, o'er his eyes,—
Yet still, in all the singing,
 Thinks haply of thy song