so little.
185
And with a golden promise still,
It lures us travellers on
To death's white steep, the wintry hill
Up which our friends have gone,
And vanished from our mortal sight,—
Thank God! into no starless night.
It lures us travellers on
To death's white steep, the wintry hill
Up which our friends have gone,
And vanished from our mortal sight,—
Thank God! into no starless night.
Faint music from beyond that steep;—
A rose-breath, far and rare:—
So little can we guess!—but deep
Heart's faith is rooted there.
So little,—and yet so much more
Than we have hoped or dreamed before!
A rose-breath, far and rare:—
So little can we guess!—but deep
Heart's faith is rooted there.
So little,—and yet so much more
Than we have hoped or dreamed before!
